Meridian Sinister and the Fall from Grace
by nerfherder-han
Summary: The year is 2019, a world that knows peace and is oblivious to the danger that lurks in the shadows. From the most unexpected of moments the order rises, the Neo Death Eaters, and it becomes clear what their intentions are with their first strike against the wizarding world. Meridian Sinister only knows one thing among the chaos: She's got a target on her back. SYOC OPEN
1. I

**Hello all! This is an SYOC, and you can find the info for it on my profile alongside the rules and the form! For now, here's the basic premise of this AU!**

**"**This is an AU SYOC where the events of the books and its student characters, as well as antagonists, were fictional - however the wizarding world itself, and the teachers at Hogwarts, were real and simply embellished by Hogwarts graduate, JK Rowling. In the year 2019 young witches and wizards take inspiration from the ideals of the Death Eaters, forming their own order: The Neo Death Eaters, led by their Dark Lord and Lady.**"**

**Let me know what you think and I hope you all enjoy! The deadline is October 19th!**

* * *

**I.**

* * *

_July, 2019_

Too bright. Too many sequins. Too funeral-y. Too "mother of the bride". Way too white.

When did all the fancy dress stores in London run out of dresses she liked? Shopping for something was never this hard, was it? Meri tapped her heel against the floor, quicker and quicker, as the anxiety continued to consume her. She'd been here plenty of times before and had been forced to look away from some that caught her eye because of the price, but now… Where in the world had they all gone?

The pressure was just getting to her, she reasoned as she sifted through another rack of dresses. It'd been… how many years since Clotilde had last contacted her? Not many, she would admit, but it was longer than Meri had gone in her life without talking to someone. A summer holiday was the limit for her. Not a peep since she graduated and moved to London? Until _now_? Her stomach was doing somersaults with every dress she passed over.

Meri chewed her lip and slowly crouched into a squat. The dress she was looking at was pushed aside, and Meri just hung her head with a defeated sigh. Why would Clotilde have sent her an invitation? Meri may have been the head of the family, but Clotilde had made it pretty apparent that she considered Meri an ill fit. And that was putting it nicely, she thought with another sigh. So _why_?

This was too stressful. Even if Meri could take a peek into Clotilde's thought process, she'd just get a brick wall in return. Her little sister was simple-minded and ditzy at the best of times, but Meri would be damned if she wasn't hard to keep up with every so often.

A throat cleared behind her. Meri, startled, fell from her squat and onto her backside, and clung to the bolero on her head in an attempt to keep from losing it. The person behind her let out an equally surprised sound, and then Meri was meeting the gaze of the store clerk as she knelt down next to her.

"I—I'm sorry, ma'am!" the clerk panicked. "I didn't mean to startle you!"

Meri let out a long sigh. No, that was on her. She really should've been paying more attention and noticed the clerk approaching her.

"It's fine," she said. Meri quickly ran her fingers through her hair and pushed herself back into a kneel.

"Was there anything I could help you with?" the clerk tried again. How long had it been since Meri had walked in the doors? She searched for a clock, but like every other wedding apparel store in London, there was none to be found.

"I, uh…" she patted her pockets for her phone. Maybe she'd have better luck somewhere else, she thought. Clotilde probably wouldn't even approve of the dresses in London, not for her special day. "I think I'll come back later. My shift should be starting soon anyway."

"O—Oh…"

The clerk simply retreated to the counter once more. Meri fixed her jacket and finally found her phone; the part about her shift starting soon was a lie, but she wasn't about to make this poor clerk look like an idiot. She put on a show, checking the time on her phone and mumbling, "Shit," as she hurried for the doors.

She wasn't having any luck here. Muggle stores just weren't going to cut it—but then she'd have to make extra trips just to check even _one_ store if she went to Diagon Alley. Having something made for the wedding would take too much time, too.

Meri ran across the street and scurried in the direction of the next store on her list. Maybe just ordering a dress online would work. Even the international dress stores would have it at her doorstep before the day of the wedding.

Then again, maybe something from _Twilfitt and Tattings_ would suffice…

Meri shook her head and scowled. Like hell she was going through all that effort for one dress! Stopping at Gringotts for the currency, navigating the area, putting up with everyone asking if she was still living with the muggles—she wasn't about to put herself through all that! Besides, Clotilde probably invited her to keep up appearances. Why would she suddenly want her sister at her wedding _now_? That had to be the only explanation. She was just inviting the head of the Sinister family, not her sister.

If she didn't find a dress in this last store, she was taking herself back home and spite-shopping online. Meri was tense as she strode inside, even as she browsed the dresses on each rack. Why did she care about looking nice? She did on occasion, but that was for Walter—not for a misguided little sister who may as well have been estranged. Meri already decided not to bleach her hair and get rid of the dye, so why would she worry about a stupid dress?

It took her almost forty-five minutes, but Meri could say she was proud to walk out those doors with a dress in a paper bag and a purpose in her step. At the very least, this store was closest to the apartment than the others. Her plan to work her way back from the furthest store wasn't a complete waste of time, she supposed.

Well… She definitely would've saved time if she'd just gone to this shop first. But then she would've spent the whole day second-guessing and freaking out and _caring_. Now that she'd come full circle with her panic, she was certain she'd be wearing this in a month's time and not giving a single damn. She might even have redyed her hair by then too!

Meri all but kicked down the door to the bookstore beneath the apartment. Typical of a Wednesday evening, it was completely empty save for the few regulars who waited for the parents to pick them up from school. She'd never imagined that she would come to call teenagers with nothing better to do but buy a book and read at breakneck speeds _regular_, but she wasn't going to be picky. They never really caused any trouble like the parents demanding secondhand books from the reading list. A few faces looked up and greeted her by name—she may as well have made up the "Co." in _Fell and Co._ out front—but most were too immersed in their books to notice. Meri weaved through the maze of shelves and scanned the rows of books as she did so. It was a habit that came with the job, just making sure everything was back in its proper order even as she passed them by idly.

Walter was at the only desk in the store, clicking away on his laptop and deep in thought. He must not have heard the bell above the door chime, let alone the regulars greet her. Meri leaned on the counter and stared at him for a few moments; he didn't show any signs of noticing her, and clearly whatever he was reading was far too interesting to look away from.

She smiled to herself. What a nerd, she thought, getting so absorbed by his tasks. Not that she was much different in her schooling years, but it would be a cold day in hell before he found that out. Someone had to be the cool one in this relationship, and Walter was too proud of his quirks to take the role.

Meri was just about to set down her bag and lean on her elbows when Walter finally moved. He clicked once, and she could see the screen change colour against his glasses. For a second she was confused, but once the colours reflecting off his glasses registered, she stood up straight again and held back a groan.

Those damn books again. How long had it been since the series ended? Like, twelve years ago? The youth would've been moving on to something else more fantastical nowadays, wouldn't they?

She looked back down at Walter, and he was grinning at her now. He knew exactly what she was thinking. He leaned forward, voice lowered as he said to her, "Be a good sport, won't you, Meri?"

Almost as soon as he'd said it, a younger teen came barrelling out from the shelves and towards the counter. Meri scooted aside as the little redhead dumped half a dozen books, all from the young adult section, on the desk.

"Good news," Walter chirped. Those hazel eyes brightened immensely as they stared up at him. "I can order a copy for you, each version available. Any preferences? Been sorted into a House yet?"

Meri's heart leapt into her throat. For the umpteenth time since Walter started selling those books, she had to remind herself that no sane witch or wizard in training would waltz into a muggle bookstore and blurt out their life story.

Walter jabbed a thumb at Meri and added, "She's a _total_ Slytherin."

Meri gawked at him. "That's not a bad thing," she grumbled.

The redhead looked to Meri with those big eyes then. "Me too!" she squeaked. "My friends think Ravenclaw and all the quizzes online say Gryffindor, but I like Slytherin best."

A few clicks from Walter. "One Slytherin House edition of _Prisoner of Azkaban_. And all these too?"

The redhead nodded. Meri just watched as Walter tallied up the total and the redhead paid with her card. It was a quick exchange, up until she wrote down an email address for him to notify her of the book's arrival, and then she was out the door with an enthusiastic goodbye to Meri over her shoulder.

Meri raised a brow at Walter. He waved her off. "You can complain upstairs after we close," he told her. "How'd shopping go?"

She picked up the bag and dangled it in front of her. "I gave up without really giving up. Kind of just spite-purchased by the last store."

"Did you even try it on?"

She snorted. "Of course I did. I'm not an idiot."

He stared at her blankly.

"Walter Fell, if you want to see me in this dress you'd better stop with that look." She shook her head at him and let out a dramatic sigh. As she breezed past him, she heard him half-heartedly rescind his dubious thoughts and return to his laptop.

Upstairs was the apartment, connected by a single door that was clearly a fire hazard. The stairs were always a pain to climb up, especially with her hands full—one day Meri was going to wind up tumbling down those stairs and twisting her ankle, all because she hadn't been looking where she was going. But the inconveniences were worth the apartment, more so the shop beneath it. She and Walter had worked hard for it, and it was more home to her now than the Sinister estate ever had been.

As mundane as the apartment was, with its simple furniture and minimal number of rooms—four total, if Meri wanted to count the change in flooring between the kitchen and living room—there were still touches of the wizarding world inside. The bookshelf with her old books, keepsakes to make sure she never got rusty; the drawer she hid her wand in at night, on the off chance some burglar broke in; and, of course, the fireplace that served as the centrepiece of the living room and the Floo powder that was safely stored beside it.

Meri all but collapsed onto the couch and dropped her bag onto the floor. No sooner had she done so, the telltale thumps of small feet against the floor echoed through the room. Whenever Meri went out, Minthe wasted no time greeting her upon return. Be it just downstairs to work, or a day in the town with friends, the Kneazle craved its owner's attention like a drug.

Minthe jumped onto the couch and walked all over Meri. It dug its paws into her back, kneaded at her jacket, and curled up into a ball on top of her. How quickly it would make itself at home on her, she thought.

Well, Kneazles did make for good guards. And lately this was how Minthe chose to guard its owners. Maybe Meri shouldn't complain about the need to be so close.

She had to have fallen asleep at some point, Minthe's fur keeping her warm and tempting her to rest. Or maybe she'd just zoned out for longer than usual—either way, Meri was coming back to reality with Minthe howling in her ear loudly and footsteps ascending the stairs outside. She reached around with one arm for the shopping bag, Minthe painfully jumping on top of her to urge her awake again, and with the other she swatted at her back feebly.

"I'm not dead," she snapped at the Kneazle. Minthe persisted, swatting back at her and howling even louder. "I said I'm not dead!"

The front door opened. Keys rattled loudly as they were dropped into the bowl beside the door. That was as good a sign as any that Walter had closed up the shop for the day and was ready to relax.

"Sleeping on the couch like that is bad for your back, love," Walter called as he passed the living room. He was heading straight for the bedroom, like always, to change into his pyjamas and melt into his armchair.

"Having a Kneazle weigh me down isn't helping."

"He worries. And I bet you didn't give him a treat when you came in either."

Ah, right. Walter wouldn't have had time between his morning routine and opening the shop. Meri pushed at Minthe softly and told it, "Alright, I get it, I'll feed you." It was all she needed to say to get it off her, and she could hear the jingle of its bell collar make its way to the kitchen.

She swore some creatures were too smart for their own good.

With Minthe full of treats and Walter taking his place in the living room, sinking deep into the armchair with a groan, Meri finally decided it was time to give the dress a less cynical look. She'd bought it with spite in mind, but she still had to make sure it actually looked nice on her. And who better to put that decision onto than her fiance?

Her exhausted fiance.

Meri leaned against the kitchen counter and buried her face in her hands. Why was Clotilde's wedding making her so… not her? Meri went all these years not caring and just doing her own thing, even if it was aimless, and now she was just all over the place.

"It's one night," Walter said from the armchair. He was leaning forward now, in full supportive-mode. "I know it may be a formality, but I'm sure she'll appreciate you showing up."

"That's just it," Meri whined. "I don't even know if she _wants_ me there or if she sent the invitation to tick off a checklist. 'Oh, I invited the Sinister family head, my disappointing big sister, so I can't be held accountable if she bails'. I just can't _see_ her being happy after the last time we spoke."

"Wow, you wizard folk really don't know how to bullshit a formal event." Walter rose from the chair and ambled over to her. Meri's hands were taken in his own and she was met with a warm smile. "Just do what you've always done with the tupperware parties and junk here—omit details and pretend you're happy to be there. If she asks how life is treating you, just tell her half-truths. You don't have to bring up me or the muggle world, just how you feel and what you get up to."

Meri pursed her lips and nodded. Walter always knew what to do when responsibility came crashing down on her. He was just as easy going as she was—it was hard to remember sometimes that he had to be the adult in his own childhood.

He gave her hands a quick shake and leaned forward to peck her on the forehead. "Now," he said. "You found a dress?"

Meri practically rushed to change into it. Walter waited patiently for her, keeping Minthe company all the while. She didn't bother with shoes, not this time, and looked herself over in the mirror once before nodding with satisfaction. She really did pick a blue that matched her hair. That was a rarity when she was in a hurry.

Her hand grazed the doorknob of the bedroom just before something caught her eye—a flash of bright green seeping under the door and through the cracks, fizzling out just as fast as it had appeared. Meri threw open the door, already fully alert, but her fear wouldn't last long. Not with the cry that came from her unexpected visitor.

"Minthe! Mum's home!"

She stood in the doorway, eyes wide and unable to break away from the scene before her. Minthe leapt from Walter's lap, howling once more as it ran for the fireplace; Walter was bug-eyed and half-off his armchair, clearly scared out of his wits by the sudden appearance of their guest; and stepping from the fireplace, arms outstretched and already skidding to a kneel to meet the Kneazle, was one Damian Valie.

Meri blinked and took a tentative step forward. Was Damian… visiting today? She didn't remember him mentioning it, not by owl or Howler or even the last time he was there. Her nostrils were filled with the smell of smoke and ash as she continued walking into the living room; the closer she got, the more she could smell the scents of various creatures mixed in.

Damian finally looked up at her, Minthe having climbed on his shoulders and making itself comfortable. He practically beamed at her and sprung back up to his full height.

"You got an invitation too!" he cheered. He rushed to meet her halfway, all but embracing her once she was within an arm's reach. "Oh, thank goodness. I was _not_ going to that wedding alone."

Meri blinked. She lightly patted his back in return and cast a confused glance at Walter. Poor man was still clutching his chest and recovering from the Valie flair.

"You… got an invitation to Clotilde's wedding?"

"Just arrived today. My whole family's been invited, so I'm being harassed into making an appearance." He pulled back, holding her by the shoulders and looking her up and down. "Wow… You picked a good one, Meri! Ah! I didn't get any soot on it, did I?"

"No, no—I mean, I can wash it later—" Meri could feel her hopes rising. Maybe she could go. She could just avoid Clotilde and spend her time with Damian. He was one of the few people who knew _why_ she and Clotilde were so distant nowadays. She let out a relieved breath and smiled. "You and Walter are life savers."

"Speaking of…" Damian turned to Walter then. Walter was only just now stretching his legs back out, catching his breath proper. "How is Jolly Wally?"

"Down twenty years in his life span," Walter wheezed. "_Every time_."

Damian waved a hand at him. "Nothing some cuddle piles can't fix. I promise you'll get the birthday treatment after the wedding for the scare."

Walter perked up at that. Ever since his twenty-first birthday, when Damian had introduced him to the glory that was the Zouwu cuddle pile, Walter had been counting down the days till his next in hopes that he'd get the same treatment again.

"See? I just added ten years back with that promise!"

"Five," Walter corrected him. "The other fifteen comes back when I'm buried under them."

Damian clicked his tongue. "Fussy."

"S—So!" Meri derailed that topic as soon as she could. She just _really_ needed confirmation that Damian was going to be there with her. It'd been too long since she'd last spoken to anyone else from Hogwarts anyway, and she wasn't fond of mingling with the political members of wizard society. "You're, um, going to attend the wedding?"

"That's what I was going to ask you," Damian said. "Be no fun if you weren't there, y'know?"

Meri nodded eagerly. She was hesitant before, but now she had something to look forward to.

"Then I'm going." He crossed his arms in front of him and took on a more mischievous expression. She knew exactly what he had in mind for their wedding antics. "In that case, take the Floo network to my menagerie and we'll head over from there. The location is pretty close—close enough for a leisurely—"

"Broom ride," Meri quickly cut him off. Like hell she was riding one of the beasts in his menagerie to the wedding. They'd be kicked out in seconds.

Damian deflated somewhat. "Brooms, whatever," he mumbled. "So you're on board with the plan?"

"When _aren't_ I?"

He carefully set Minthe on the floor and gave her a dubious grunt. He bid them farewell in his usual enthusiastic way, and Meri shielded her eyes as he jumped into the emerald flames that would take him back to his menagerie.

Once the flames subsided and quiet settled over the Fell apartment, Meri collapsed onto the nearby couch and let out an excited giggle.

"At least he remembered to leave Minthe here this time," Walter said.

* * *

**Once again, the deadline is October 19th and I look forward to hearing what you all think! Remember, the form and rules are on my profile!**


	2. II

**Hey hello everyone! Sorry for the delay with the chapter's release, but here we are! Just a few notes before we continue, because Fall From Grace's form will be edited and left on my profile following this chapter!**

**The cast list is at the bottom of the chapter~ You back after checking? Right, if you didn't see your character on the list, don't fret! Fall From Grace will more than likely have an alternating cast, as not every character may survive or stay to fight. So instead of putting the cast on my profile, I'll be listing the cast as it updates at the end of chapters where changes are made! That means our initial cast is listed in chapter two, and the next update to the cast will be listed in the chapter it happens in~**

**Sorry if that was a confusing or anything, guys! TL;DR The cast will be listed in the story and will be subject to change rather than listed on my profile. Death can and will happen, and characters distancing themselves from the dangers ahead can and will happen.**

**With that said and done, I hope you enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

**II.**

* * *

_August, 2014_

One would think after five years of shopping for required reading, it would become easier to get it all over with in one day. Never mind that the lists got longer and longer and that the extracurricular activities had to be handled as well. It should've been easier, but not once did Meri find herself looking at her shopping list with any sense of ease.

The years, and the motions, just seemed to be dragging on at this point.

She loaded yet another book into her cauldron and drifted along the shelves. Just two more years—two more, and then she'd have to think on what she wanted to do with her life. Meri sniffed and paused to observe one particular book on Quidditch history. There was no doubt her house was expecting her to continue playing, especially after begging her to stay on after her second year, but was professional Quidditch the way she wanted to go? It was loud, fast, and professional games tended to last _far_ longer than most Hogwarts games. More than that, there was the large number of teams to pick from. Did she go for an Irish team, to represent her home, or did she go international?

Too many things to ponder. Too many things to think about before she'd reunite with her team this year. It wasn't like she could ask Clotilde or the maids any of this, not with how prestigious their views were. Meridian Sinister had to be amazing, and if she was anything less then she was an unspoken disappointment.

She pulled the Quidditch book from its shelf and flipped through a few pages. Sinisters never really got into the sport, not even her parents. The only reason Meri took a shine to it was because her peers wanted her to. She had nothing else to pass the time with but naps with Damian, and her ability to ride a broom was nothing to shirk at. Now that she thought about it, there weren't a lot of families she knew of that held their fame in Quidditch. Not personally, at least.

Meri paused on a page about famous brooms used by Seekers in the past, some ordinary and others top class for their time. Her own broom was nothing to shirk at either. Maybe that was part of why she was so good. Maybe if she could prove she was useless without a fast broom, everyone would give up suggesting she go the professional route.

A hand lightly shoved at her shoulder, half-jostling her and pulling her attention from a small article on broom destruction during matches. It was a typical greeting by this point, so much so that Meri barely missed a beat as she snapped the book shut and slid it back into the shelf, barely pausing to look back at her friend.

"There you are!" the roguish girl behind her cheered. Meri wasn't expecting to run into anyone today, though part of her was just hoping as much. Clotilde made things awkward whenever she ran into Meri and her friends, and Meri was supposed to be helping her with her shopping. "You've grown your hair out!"

Meri smiled tiredly back at Ophelia. She hadn't kept as much contact as she'd wanted over the winter holidays. Not as much as Damian, who made the effort to get away from his family and sneak Meri out for naps while Clotilde parroted the maids and studied. "Got a bit lax with it. It won't get in my face yet, so the team can't complain," she said.

Ophelia hadn't changed much—on principle, Meri thought, rather than actual appearance. Sure, her hairstyle had changed and she'd grown a few more centimetres, no longer a whole head shorter than the lanky Meri like last year. But she was still covered in bruises from fights, still had a torn and tattered uniform she paraded around in like royal robes. She still had that haughty air about her, a perfect antithesis to Meri's own listless.

"I like it. Suits you," Ophelia went on. Meri absentmindedly reached up and tugged at the locks. It definitely felt heavier. But it wasn't as long as Ophelia's yet.

Meri nodded, not sure what to say, and turned back to the shelves. What did she need to get next…?

"Have you got everything for this year?" she asked. She tapped a finger against her cauldron, trying to remember what she'd grabbed so far without looking. Her memory ought to have been capable of that much by now, she decided.

"Mum had it delivered, so I just need to pack. I'm only here to shop for…" Ophelia darted to the bookshelf and pulled the Quidditch book from it. She held it up to Meri with a big grin on her face.

Meri raised a brow at her. "The… book on Quidditch?"

"No!" Ophelia waved the book around. "I'm here for a broom! A good one! I wanna try out for a spot on the team—you said all the Beaters graduated last year, didn't you?"

Meri blinked at her. Ophelia was going to join the team? She certainly had the strength for it, but Beaters weren't just supposed to be strong. And she'd have a lot of difficulty competing with the boys who trained for it, especially if she only just decided to do it over the holidays.

"You need good balance," Meri said. Ophelia huffed and lowered the book.

"I _know_ that. You act like I _wasn't_ at every single match to cheer you on." She slid the book back into the shelf. "Plus, I'm gonna get you to help me with the balance. I practised a bit over the holidays but never on a broom. And where better to start than on the castle grounds and with Slytherin's Seeker?"

"Damian—" Ophelia sucked in a deep breath, and Meri quickly cut her off with a rushed, "Right, right. I know. Broomphobic."

The girls kept on walking. As they did, Meri occasionally loaded required reading into her cauldron. They were close to the counter when Ophelia started again on the subject of her broom.

"_Please_, Meri," she tried. Meri went stiff at the plea. Ophelia was nice, but she never _begged_ unless her heart was set on something. "Think of it like tutoring for any other class! Only the right books is the right broom, and the methods to remembering spells is making sure I don't fling myself off my broom while yelling, 'No hands!'"

Meri snorted. Now that was something she wouldn't mind seeing. Ophelia knew it too. She was grinning again, fully aware of how much she'd swayed Meri with the scene.

Finally, after paying the clerk and crossing the books off her list, Meri relented. "Alright," she sighed. Ophelia nearly tackled her into a hug, squeezing the taller girl tightly and letting out a squeal. "But we're doing it in the mornings. Curfew and practice will keep me from helping you after classes."

"Name a time and I'm there," Ophelia assured her. "I don't care if it's three in the morning, I'm milking the sage wisdom of Meri Sinister for all its worth."

Meri almost retorted that if Ophelia _truly_ wanted to milk her wisdom for all it was worth, she'd ask Meri about the best magical beasts to cuddle for the most restful naps. But she held her tongue, her friend's excitement too infectious to put a damper on. Spending more time with Ophelia was never a bad thing. She did need to make up for lost time over the holidays, after all.

The celebratory moment was short-lived. As soon as the two of them stepped foot outside the store, Ophelia's distracted state led her right into a smaller form and almost bouncing them to the ground. Meri faltered, half-in the door and half-out, as Ophelia stumbled to a full stop and tried to regain her balance.

Not a good start for her Beater training.

But what seemed to be an even worse start, quite possibly for the school year, was the fact that Ophelia had barreled into a child in robes that had no house colours adorning them. The child had to be one of the new arrivals, shopping in Diagon Alley for the supplies they needed; but now they were on the ground and sniffling loudly, face red and their entire form covered in ashes. Had they arrived using the Floo Network?

From under all the ashes Meri could vaguely make out green eyes, and the dirty brown hair that was barely longer than her own was curlier than anyone else's she knew. The little girl staring up at them was clearly in distress, and that distress only grew when her eyes darted to the loose green and silver ties around their necks. Ah, Meri realised—most likely a muggle-born who grew up on those silly books. Had it been any other house a villain had come from, the reaction would have been the same.

Ophelia was quick to drop into a squat in front of the little girl. With genuine concern on her face she stammered, "I'm so sorry! I wasn't looking where I was going! I didn't hurt you, did I?"

The girl shook like a leaf as she told Ophelia she was unharmed. Ophelia let out a relieved sigh and offered her a hand. After a moment of reluctance, the little girl took her hand and was lifted to her feet with ease.

It didn't take long for the waterworks to start in full once she was on her feet. Ophelia barely began introducing herself before she broke out into a wail; they were attracting a crowd, and the clerk inside the store looked ready to shoo them away.

Meri offered the girl a her own free hand. Without a single word exchanged, the girl wound up flanked by Meri and Ophelia as they both led her to the one place _no one_ could stay sad at: _Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour_.

It was a detour worth taking, Meri decided. Book shopping was exhausting, and so was thinking about her future, and it was just one more way she could make up for lost time with Ophelia. And the little girl seemed a tad less distressed now that she was balancing a giant strawberry scoop in her hands.

"Are you, ah…" Meri poked at her own ice cream. "Feeling better?"

The girl nodded her head a fraction.

"We probably overwhelmed you, huh?" Ophelia went on. Another nod, but this time it was almost a guilty admission.

"Sorry…" the girl mumbled. She shovelled a big scoop of ice cream into her mouth and thought to herself for a moment. "I'm not good with… new things."

Definitely muggle-born, Meri thought. Or a very sheltered witch who wasn't prepared for this kind of thing on her own.

"First time in Diagon Alley?" Ophelia asked. She nodded again. Ophelia clicked her tongue. "What kind of good-for-nothing parent—"

Meri loudly cleared her throat just as the girl started to turn red in the cheeks. Ophelia had thought the same thing back when she'd met Meri, but now that they were about to go into their sixth year she really should've known by now that not everyone had parents to show them through the place.

Ophelia trailed off and shook her head. "I—I mean, didn't anyone come with you?"

The girl mumbled something short. Both teens exchanged glances before saying in unison, "Pardon?"

"Wally…" The girl refused to meet their eyes. "Wally is meant to be with me. But I got the name wrong when I used the Floo Powder."

A common mistake, even for people experienced with the Floo Network. But that meant Wally had to be somewhere in Diagon Alley, otherwise she'd be worrying about where _he_ wound up instead of herself.

Ophelia leaned back in her chair and kicked her legs out, stretching them. "So you just need to find Wally, right? Then you'll feel better?"

"It's not that easy, Fee…"

Ophelia waved a hand at Meri. "It's a solid start, though. And I have the free time—unless you want to finish your shopping later and tag along?"

Tempting. But Meri already knew a better alternative to wandering around and calling out to Wally.

"Or," she said with a slowly growing smile, "we wait here. Remember when I lost Clotilde last year? _Everyone_ points lost children and guardians to Florean's. I guarantee you the moment Wally asks, he'll get directions to here."

The girl jumped out of her chair. "Really?" she gasped. Meri nodded. The redness in her cheeks slowly faded, and her shoulders visibly relaxed.

As though proving Meri right and giving her a reason to be smug at Ophelia, a boy in jeans and an oversized jumper sprinted around the corner. He was out of breath, a tote bag loosely hanging over one shoulder, and his glasses were just about ready to fall off his face as he skidded to a halt. He looked far too out of place here, but it wasn't like Diagon Alley had a dress code or anything.

He scanned the chairs out the front, and the moment he saw the girl he screeched, "Millie!"

The girl, Millie, almost dropped her ice cream as she raced out of her seat. Well, that was Wally. Their work was done, their good deed for the day crossed off their lists.

Wally was leading her back to the table once the reunion concluded, and he sank into a chair beside Meri while Millie resumed eating her ice cream. She was much more pleasant than before, Meri noted—seeing Wally really put the skip back into her step.

"I'm so sorry about this," Wally sighed. He looked from Ophelia to Meri and bowed his head. "I should've kept a better eye on her."

Meri shrugged. "It happens," she told him.

Ophelia grinned. "Happened to you last year."

Meri kicked her foot from under the table.

He tried to laugh, but it came out forced. Wally eventually just laid his head down on the table and groaned. "Maybe it would've been better if Mum or Dad helped you. We didn't even know if the Floo would work for me…"

He dared a glance up at the girls. Much like Millie had, his expression fell further upon seeing their Slytherin colours.

"And… I've probably made you look silly to the purebloods." He directed an apology to the girls, a delfated, "Sorry 'bout that."

"It happens," Meri repeated.

"And I ain't no pureblood." Ophelia shrugged. "So no harm, no foul."

"So, you're Wally?" Meri could kick herself for the question. But making certain was never a bad thing.

He nodded. "Walter Fell. Nice to meet you both. The little witch is Millie, my sister."

"You've got to be our age," Ophelia noted. "Do you go to a different school? Never seen you around Hogwarts."

Millie shook her head, but Walter's reaction was a little less open. He averted his gaze, a tight smile on his face that spoke levels of how uncomfortable a question that was.

"Wally's like Aunt Henrietta," Millie said. Before she could elaborate, Walter coughed and shook his head at her. Millie quickly gasped and stuffed her mouth full of ice cream.

There was no need to say it out loud. The fact that he was embarrassed, and that his sister didn't quite know it meant something bad for him yet, may as well have spelled it out for them.

Squib.

* * *

_July, 2019_

She was starting to fall asleep while standing up. The streamers in her hands fell to the floor again, a balloon bumping her head from atop the shelf. These special birthday sales were a nightmare, but she had to uphold the tradition since she was the one to suggest it.

But God, she regretted making that suggestion.

The store opened at eight, and here Meri was, decorating every nook and cranny with signs declaring "_Very Meri Sale_" and balloons the same electric blue as her hair. She was never usually up at this hour if she could help it, handling everything up until closing once Walter was done in the morning. But it was her birthday, and while Walter prepared a big night of birthday dinner, cake, and presents, Meri had to work the entire day.

It would've been a whole world easier if Walter just let her close the curtains and whip out her wand. The store would look a lot less like some child had tried to finish a one-month assignment in one night. But rules were rules, and as long as Meri lived the muggle life she did as the muggles would.

Even if it got inconvenient at times.

To her credit, her half-asleep decorating ability was decent. It looked tacky, sure, but it felt festive enough. Someone was bound to realise that there was a sale, and that it was an annual one. And with the decorating out of the way, she was free to execute her favourite part of the Very Meri Sale: Choosing which books to slash the prices of.

She stared down at the box of crime novels with a childish glee. Box cutter in one hand, a sheet of Very Meri Sale stickers in the other, Meri was _ready_ to fully control what books got the spotlight on her special day. She wasn't cruel—she had some variety, some supernatural-crime, some plain mystery. Customers couldn't complain about the lack of choices to make from the deals. If anything, they were being spoiled by Meri and her excellent tastes.

No silly fantasies, no grossly overblown sci-fi. Just some regular intrigue with the occasional cheesy romance side plot. She was a sucker for it, she wouldn't deny it. She slapped some stickers on these bad boys, stacked them neatly on the big counter in the middle of the store, and sucked in a deep breath.

That new book smell was euphoric.

Ever so slowly she began to wake up proper. Meri found herself stacking the books with a skip in her step, a mumbled tune of, "Happy birthday to me," filling the silent store. At least by the end of this nonstop working day, she would be treated to Walter's expert cake decorating and cooking. Sometimes she swore he had a little magic in him, because not even Meri and Damian working together could make something so delicious. (Or maybe, she thought with a slight chuckle, Walter was just far more used to cooking for himself with his own hands than they were.)

By the time eight had rolled around, the locks on the door undone and the lights switched on to properly emphasise that they were having a sale, Meri was sliding into the chair behind the desk and switching on Walter's laptop. Normally people didn't start filtering in until the later hours, closer to lunch than breakfast, but some people had time to kill. She couldn't count how many times people going for job interviews in the area waited at _Fell and Co._ until it was appropriate to show up. And the stay-at-home mothers coming back from the daycare centre were basically their morning cash cows. Which, Meri proudly reminded herself, would double with her slashing the prices on the crime novels with the more _steamy_ romantic side plots.

A career in adulthood was way easier than her teenage self thought it would be. Way more peaceful, too. Meri wasn't sure what she was expecting, especially with how those last few years at Hogwarts turned out to be, but it wasn't as filled with… contentment as today was. She was never good at planning ahead, but even Meri had to admit that turning twenty-two had more pros than cons by this point.

July 29th. Just a fortnight away from Clotilde's wedding. Where the hell had all the time gone? Meri hadn't been able to stop picturing herself and Clotilde as their younger selves, as the seventeen-year-old finally snapping at her sister and the fourteen-year-old who turned against her and called her a disgrace. Had Clotilde even changed since that time? Meri couldn't even deduce that much from the invitation. For all she knew, Clotilde really had just sent it as a formality. She was marrying into another pureblood family, and it wouldn't look good if the bride's own family hadn't been invited.

Or maybe she had changed. Maybe the immature girl who parroted everyone's opinions, especially their worst ones, had grown up. Maybe getting engaged grounded her a little more. Maybe Meri and Clotilde could act like sisters who cared about each other, for once.

The bell above the door jingled. Meri pushed the thoughts away, blinking heavily, and made herself look busy. She just had to remember not to be awkward if someone actually wished her a happy birthday.

She waited and waited, almost holding her breath as the customer kept walking around the shelves. She could barely see who it was, but that would soon be remedied when his tall form emerged from one of the shelves. It'd been a long time since she'd seen him last, both of them busy with their work, but she recognised his face anywhere.

Meri could feel herself becoming more and more giddy as he approached her. She hadn't even realised how long it had been since they'd last spoken, not like she had with Damian. The fact that he had come here on her birthday, even if accidentally, was something worth working the front of the store for. It was a well-deserved relief, to see his lean form tower over her and his skin looking less like the stuff of a walking corpse. Every time she saw him, there was improvement in his wellbeing.

While they'd been of different houses, Florence Maleficent-Roufenge was still a close friend of the Slytherin and her peers. An outcast at first, he'd made his way into their hearts in the way that mattered—and unlike the others around her who always preferred to stick to blood purity and status among class, Florence just treated her like an equal and only asked he be treated the same.

So Meri could not be blamed in the slightest when she all but climbed over the desk and shouted, "Flo, oh my God!"

Florence smiled at her, appearing just a tad tired as he did, and walked a little faster. He pulled his hands out from his jacket pockets and opened his arms wide for a hug. As he spun her around, Meri could very much feel the shape of something in his jacket pocket no bigger than a box for earrings or a ring.

"What brings you to the _Very Meri Sale_?" she joked. Florence huffed out a laugh and kept up his smile.

"It's your birthday. I'm not missing it," he told her. Meri patted his shoulder. Even with everyone growing up and living their lives, and Meri pulling away from the wizarding world to pursue a muggle lifestyle, some people like Florence still made time for her. Still dropped by for the little things. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, blue velvet box. It had one of those cheap supermarket ribbons taped on top of it, and he sheepishly went on, "I… got caught up with work. This was the best wrapping job I could do."

"Better than a card with a voucher for a store I live nowhere near," she said. Florence coughed a little, trying to hold back a snicker. Ophelia had meant well with that gift in the mail, but the nearest _In-N-Out_ was way out of her way. Like, an entire ocean and several grand in cash away. Still, the thought was what mattered.

Inside the box was a simple pair of earrings—blue to match her hair, almost as clear and glistening as a diamond. She pulled one out and held it up above her head, admiring the gleam that the light cast through it, and let out a contented sigh. "They're so pretty," she whispered.

"You think so?" Florence looked at the earrings with a hint of scrutiny. "I feel like they're… not quite enough, I guess."

"I guarantee you they're enough." As she said that, she backed herself to the desk and set down the box. It'd been a while since she'd worn earrings for the sake of it, but it was her birthday. The birthday girl could do what she damn well pleased as long as she worked the shop. She slipped one into her ear and parted her hair over one shoulder. "I feel snazzier already."

"Never thought I'd hear you use 'snazzy' to describe yourself." Florence shrugged and finally relaxed some. He made his way to the desk with her and leaned over it almost casually. "So you're working on your birthday?"

She shrugged back at him. Explaining the intricacies of her deal with Walter were difficult sometimes. A lot of the time, the takeaway people had was that Meri hadn't gotten his gift or cake prepared in advance and bullshitted the idea to buy time. They weren't wrong.

Telling Florence, "I like work too much," made her feel much, much less lame about it. So that's what she went with.

As soon as the customers came in for the annual sale, Florence excused himself to go say hello to Walter. The two vaguely knew each other, not as well as Walter and Damian did, but Meri was confident enough that they wouldn't get too awkward. Plus, Minthe was good at stealing the show and earning a few conversational topics. Mainly topics along the line of, "Is your Kneazle allowed to eat that?" but topics that revived conversation nonetheless.

She scanned a dozen romance novellas by the time Florence came back down, his wallet in his hand and his eyes wide with realisation once he saw Meri. Her current line of customers was growing shorter, and they were all kind of enough to overwhelm Florence a little with greetings and questions about whether or not he was Walter. Some of these women were… not good when it came to remembering faces. But they were smart enough to know the woman manning the desk was the Meri the sale was named after, at least.

The last of this morning's influx vanished through the front door, and Florence walked to the front of the desk with his brows raised. He pulled out cash and a membership card, sliding them to Meri with one movement of his arm.

"I almost forgot, there's a book I was hoping to preorder through you guys," he said. Meri tapped the mousepad of the laptop and waited for the screen to light up. "It's a medical book, so if you don't have it then don't worry, but I figured I'd try here first."

Meri smirked. "Please," she drawled. "Walter hoards too many books to not have something in stock. Especially the psychology material."

"Oh, no. Not for me. I was looking for stuff about the human body and the like. Just anything related to learning it, I guess."

She raised a brow. "Expanding your horizons?"

"As if. It's going to be a gift. You know Clotilde and Leopold's wedding? I couldn't attend the bachelor party so I'm getting Leopold a gift to make up for it."

Meri paused mid-click. Florence got invited too? That was a surprise. It shouldn't have been, since Leopold hung around Florence a lot at Hogwarts, but still. Clotilde not inviting Walter felt like a reason for Meri to think she would disregard _anyone_ with muggle heritage. She wholly expected it to be a pureblood soiree, but if Florence was going, then maybe…

She pursed her lips and checked her stock of medical books. They didn't have a lot to begin with, and each area of medicine was lumped into one category, so a specific kind of area would take time to find. "You're going to the wedding?" she tried.

Florence winced, but it quickly turned into a smile. He was getting good at recovering from his old habits, she thought with a bit of pride. Back at Hogwarts, he'd stay pretty glum if anyone asked him anything. He got defensive, couldn't open up like people hoped he could.

"I'm, um… Leopold wanted me to be the best man." He rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes darted to the floor, almost scared to meet Meri's own. "He… really insisted. Said he trusted me with the responsibility of it all. And Clotilde approved. Actually, she convinced me to do it by the end."

Clotilde convinced Florence? A muggle-born? To be her fiance's best man?

"Does she…" Meri cleared her throat. "Do you guys talk much? You and Clotilde?"

Florence shrugged. "I've been busy with work lately, and she's been at the forefront of wedding planning since day one. But… she's mellowed out since the last time I saw you two together. She's even wondering what you're doing with yourself lately."

Meri quickly turned to face him, full-body, with her eyes wide and a hitched breath in her throat.

"I haven't said anything, though!" he reassured her. "I figured that was for you to decide, not me. I just told her you're… happy."

Meri let out a breath she wasn't aware she was holding. "Thanks, Flo. Really. I don't think she'd be at the point yet where she'd take my choices with…" She scrunched up her face. "_Decorum_."

"Yeah," Florence said slowly. He was starting to look at Meri again, an almost sympathetic look on his face. "Figured as much."

She turned back to the laptop and finished scanning through the books available. With the amount he'd given her, Meri picked out a reasonably priced book previously donated by a cardiology nurse who no longer needed it. Considering Leopold was going into an event tied to his heart, it felt pretty thematic.

With his receipt tucked in his wallet, Florence thanked her and disappeared up the stairs to the apartment once more. He was gone for all of two minutes, and then he was back—Walter in tow with his hair lightly dusted in flour.

"All good up there?" Meri asked him. Walter nodded. He opened the door to the desk and joined her inside. His phone was in his hand, a timer counting down even as he set it down by his laptop. "Love?"

"The _Very Meri Sale_ can survive, oh, an hour or so without the star of the show," he told her. He pulled the chair out and dropped onto it. "And your cake is safe with Minthe watching it. Turned on the baby monitor app in case he notices something wrong."

Florence gasped. "You got a baby monitor for him?" When Walter nodded, Florence whispered, "That's so adorable…"

Meri hesitated before reaching for her cardigan. "You're seriously waiving the birthday rule for an hour?" she scoffed. Walter nodded. His gaze flickered to her ears, right as he leaned in to peck her on the cheek, and he paused.

"You pick these out, Florence?" he asked. A smile was slowly creeping onto his face. "They suit you."

"You were right about blue being my colour," Meri laughed. She hugged Walter tightly and rubbed their noses together, a near-sickening display of affection had Meri been witnessing it instead of instigating. "I'll bring you back something to drink. No longer than an hour, promise."

Leaving the shop to Walter, even for a short amount of time, made her feel a tad guilty. The guilt was short-lived, however, once Florence led her towards her next birthday destination. He had to have negotiated with Walter for this, but the fact that he'd done it so quickly was a feat in itself to Meri. Walter was a pro when it came to arguments, especially ones that changed established rules around the house.

Florence elbowed her softly, a sort of envious smile on his face as she met his eye. "Look at you. PDA _and_ using the word 'snazzy'. Am I talking to Meridian Sinister right now or her clone?"

She lightly smacked him on the shoulder. "Shush," she laughed. "It feels weird when you point it out."

"I'm only teasing." He tucked his hands in his pockets and let out a long, wistful sigh. Florence was silent for a moment, letting the two of them walk in the peaceful streets of the early morning; but soon enough he was talking again, his voice somewhat hushed. It was like he was ashamed to ask this of Meri. "Is it nice? Having a relationship like that?"

It wasn't the first time Meri had been asked such a question by him. It wasn't going to be the last, either—people like Florence were unlucky, and unlucky people just needed a little reassurance every now and then. Meri was happy to be that reassurance until he didn't need her anymore.

"It is," Meri told him, voice just as soft as his had been. Florence slowed his walk a bit, his attention more on her than what was in front of him. "There's a lot of emotions involved. Sometimes there's bumps. But it truly is… something nice."

In the past, Florence would've made a remark that he was jealous of other people. He would've said that he wasn't allowed something so nice, that he didn't deserve it. He couldn't help what he was, but a younger Florence still blamed himself for everything that happened to him.

Today, as they walked into a slightly crowded street, he closed his eyes and thought for a moment. Meri was ready to reassure him, to tell him he wasn't whatever he deemed to call himself this time; but instead he hummed and muttered, "Wonder when I'll have that."

Not if. When. Meri smiled to herself and nudged him with her elbow. There was pride welling in her chest, pride at how much he'd grown since the last time they'd seen each other.

"Whoever you find," she told him, "I hope they treat you like the angel you are."

"You're a sap."

"I sure am. And you're stuck with this sap until Walter needs me back at the shop."

Though Meri and Walter lived within walking distance of a decent _Starbucks_, very rarely did they have the energy or motivation to walk through the doors. Every so often they would pass a sign promoting a new monstrosity of a drink, but instead of being tempted they'd always reason that they couldn't be gone from the shop for too long. So today was a treat for both Meri and Walter as Florence held the door open for her. He pulled out his wallet, fiddling with its zip idly as he joined her.

Florence obviously already had his order in mind. He looked to Meri, patient as she scanned the menu, but Meri could only scrunch up her face and ask him, "What do you think I'd like?"

He pondered it for a moment. "Any restrictions?"

Meri shook her head.

"Alright. Back in a sec." With that, he made his way to the counter and began rattling off his order. Meri almost balked when she heard him list six pumps each of three different kinds of syrup, and the poor woman serving him seemed to have the same expression as he went on. When he started on Meri's order, he was much more restrained with the amount of sugar he wanted in it.

She couldn't help the relieved sigh that escaped her. Meri was ready for a sugar overload, but not a _sugar overload_. She took a seat nearby, Florence joining her soon after, and it was only a matter of time before their orders would be ready.

As they waited, Florence brought the conversation back to the wedding by asking, "Are you nervous? About seeing Clotilde again, I mean."

Meri huffed out a soft laugh. Nervous was an understatement. "It's… challenging to wrap my head around. I can't tell if she really wants me there or if she's being formal."

Florence smiled sheepishly at her. "Can I let you in on a secret?" he whispered.

"Shoot."

"Clotilde _insisted_ on inviting you to the wedding." He leaned forward as though anyone could hear, could report his gossiping to Clotilde herself. "Every time she had me consult her on something for the wedding, she _always_ made sure to mention she wanted you at the wedding."

She did? Meri was floored. After the sour note they parted on, Clotilde _wanted_ Meri at the wedding? She furrowed her brows and took in a deep breath. Meri wasn't sure how to feel about the news. She'd been debating the reasons why she'd been invited ever since she got the invitation in the mail. Now that she knew… there was no way she was disappointed, right? She hadn't been _hoping_ Clotilde had done it just to make herself look good, was she?

"Meri?" Florence was looking at her with concern now.

Meri blinked quickly and cleared her throat. "Yeah. Yeah," she said quickly. She met his gaze and did her best to smile. It was a weak reassurance, but it was the best she could muster now that she knew Clotilde truly wanted her there. "Thank you—for telling me. I'm not sure how I would've handled the wedding if I didn't know she wanted me there." Meri tried to laugh. "I probably would've ruined her day by avoiding her or something."

"Never," Florence told her. "I don't think anything could bring Clotilde down. She's too excited about it actually happening."

"Oh yeah?"

"Trust me." Florence looked confident with his next words. "Even if something went horribly wrong at the wedding, she'd still be too excited to care."

She'd have to hold him to that.

* * *

**Feedback on the chapter is very much appreciated! And for those eager to see the cast, here you go~**

**Fall From Grace cast list:**

*** **Amelia Sutherland - 22 - Hufflepuff - arans

*** **Armand Wesley - 22 - Gryffindor - heartattak**  
**

*** **Aurora Mohren - 23 - Ravenclaw - Pixelfun20

*** **Celia Abernathy - 22 - Gryffindor - Firealis

*** **Damian Valie - 22 - Slytherin - Insanity's Jewel

*** **Deacon Hendrich - 21 - Slytherin - saltzcabello

*** **Florence Maleficent-Roufenge - 22 - Hufflepuff - Nirvana's Demise

*** **Kamilah Aizula - 23 - Hufflepuff - Monty's Cloudy Day

*** **Keira Kapoor - 24 - Hufflepuff - miss trillian

*** **Lena Carron - 21 - Hufflepuff - herec0mesthesun

*** **Lorenzo Navarro-Rosón - 21 - Hufflepuff - KeepMeRunning

*** **Marcelis Virrone - 29 - Slytherin - CrayzelTheRadWizard

*** **Meridian Sinister - 22 - Slytherin - nerfherder-han

*** **Ophelia Ashcourt - 22 - Slytherin - RainIsMyMusic

**The list will change accordingly when the cast changes in-story! Till next time, and Happy Halloween~  
**


	3. III

**This? This. This got away from me. I hope you guys enjoy and uh, sorry about the wait? It was hard splitting time between this and my NaNoWriMo project but I think I managed! And for those curious, I listened to a lot of "Luna (Moon of Claiming)" by Cemeteries while writing this!**

* * *

**III**.

* * *

"_Two drops of arsenic in its purest distillate."_

* * *

_July 29th, 2019_

It nagged at her. An itch she couldn't reach, let alone scratch, and it bothered her to no end. Each time she glanced over at the small table near the window, she would furrow her brows and ask herself, _Am I imagining it?_

It was hard to answer her own question.

The names Meridian and Florence were ones she recognised for sure—it wasn't often you came across those names after leaving Hogwarts, where they were almost commonplace—but the people… She couldn't tell if they were her old classmates or not. Amelia didn't keep many, if any photos of her time at Hogwarts, and the faces she could still vaguely remember were still different to the ones she saw today.

Sickly and terminal—not bright and charismatic. Bored and listless—not giddy and curious.

More than that, she thought to herself as she cleaned the coffee machine, why would a pureblood witch be mingling in muggle society? It was weird—not unheard of, but still weird. And if the Meridian that was on the receiving end of this s'mores frappuccino was indeed her old schoolmate, then Amelia certainly had more questions than answers.

She pursed her lips and returned to taking orders. It wasn't something she needed to worry about. It wasn't like this was going to directly affect her life in any way, especially since the two of them were engrossed in their conversation right now. Her shift ended soon anyway, and she had more pressing matters to take care of today.

Pressing to her, at least. She had a short window of time before the items she needed sold out for the day, and she'd begged for a shorter shift just to make sure she could make it. Amelia wasn't about to waste the mercy that _Starbucks_ management granted upon her.

Still, it nagged her. She finished up the second drink, a monstrosity of sugar and caramel drizzle, and set it aside with the s'mores frappuccino.

"Frappuccinos for Meri and Florence!" she called. Someone who was very much not the duo who placed the order stepped forward, and just as they tried to take the drinks Amelia felt herself die a little inside. "Are you Meri or Florence?" she went on. When the woman shook her head, Amelia put on her best customer service smile and politely told her to wait for her name to be called.

There was one every shift, she swore. Would it kill them to actually wait for their name instead of zeroing in on the first drink they see on the counter meant for someone else? _Clearly_, she thought to herself as the middle-aged woman huffed and began tapping her shoe against the floor impatiently.

The maybe-former-classmates didn't stay for too long after that. Amelia's shift ended in fifteen minutes, and during that time they didn't come back. Amelia fled for the staff room when her shoulder was tapped by her coworker, her only instruction being a short, "It's lunch, Amy."

Amelia changed out of her uniform in record time. She slung her bag over her shoulder, and as she threw a goodbye back to the staff still working she tucked her phone into the pocket of her overall dress. She'd timed this as meticulously as possible last night—bus route reference upon reference, average travel time during even the worst of traffic. She didn't need to get there as fast as she was aiming for. She had time. Like, ridiculous amounts of time. But Amelia wasn't about to push her luck, especially if they were short on the colours she desperately needed to finish her current piece.

It took a bus ride that seemed to last an eternity, a brisk sprint across a busy street, and a few attempts at backtracking before she finally saw the tiny sign for the art supply shop she'd been staking out for the last two weeks. It was tucked away between two bigger buildings, its sign barely visible above the potted flowers decorating the storefront—and despite the lack of people inside, its door declared that they were open.

Amelia let out a long, quiet breath as she walked inside. She'd been stressing over her supplies for a while now, piggybacking off of the stress of not only the weird wedding invitation she got, but also family issues. This morning she'd even found herself staring extra hard in her bathroom mirror, almost too scared to see if any of her raven locks had started to turn grey. Stress of this level was supposed to end after graduating school, she'd told herself on the way to work; yet here she was, the farthest from relaxed as she could be!

The sole clerk in the store gave her a polite wave and went back to looking over a display book on their desk, occasionally tapping at the computer and tracing a finger over a line in the book. Probably placing orders for more stock, she thought—if they didn't have all the colours she needed, it couldn't hurt to see if they'd get some in this shipment.

Painting was a hobby and solace for Amelia. She'd been doing it for as long as she could remember, starting out with watercolours (much to her father's horror, with young Amelia tending to stray away from the canvas more often than not), and recently she'd been in need of more supplies. It was easy to save up the money for the paints and canvases, sometimes new brushes if she needed them, but actually timing when other artists like herself would swoop in for the colours she needed was a nightmare. Amelia could make do with experimenting, sticking to just one pallet for as long as she needed to, but even that method would run its course and demand even _more_ supplies replaced.

The paints she needed today was part of her stress. Amelia scanned the shelves, lingering on the acrylics with an almost longing pout. It was the safer option, one she had more experience in; next to them was the watercolours, but they weren't what she was here for today. Her heart began to lurch when the stock slowly thinned out, closer and closer she got to the oil paints. Those were the tubes she needed, and apparently the rest of London did too.

She pulled her phone from her pocket and opened her notes. She'd saved the names of the colours as soon as they'd run out, and the list was starting to grow by the day. She couldn't afford to wait any longer, not when she'd taken such a short shift today, and Amelia really did have a deadline she needed to finish this before. She wasn't used to it, a deadline looming over her, but she refused to back down from the piece now that she was _so close_ to the finish line.

She scanned the list, looked up, and her other hand darted out for a tube labelled _Jaune Brilliant_. _Spectrum Emerald_ followed without missing a beat, and then she paused to check the list again. The yellows and greens were the ones she needed the least of, and ever so slowly Amelia shuffled towards the blues and reds. Her gaze lingered on a colour next to one on her list, _French Ultramarine_, and her face scrunched up before she could stop it. She hadn't really considered mixing the blues that much yet, not drastically at least, but she could practically hear the tube of paint calling for her.

Amelia reached out, hesitated, flexed her fingers; with a pained whimper, she ignored the pleas of the _French Ultramarine_ and instead grabbed the _Tasman Blue_ beside it. She had a list, she had her colours already laid out, she couldn't afford to start over if the blues didn't work together.

Next time, she promised the line of tubes.

By some stroke of luck the _Cadmium Deep Red_ still had one tube left for the taking. While it wasn't on her list, she wasn't about to pass it up—Cadmium colours were hard to come by, especially for the price this store had them. With a final _Permanent Rose _and a _Coral_, Amelia trotted over to the clerk and set down the tubes as though they were made of glass.

When the clerk saw her selections, he immediately perked up and said to himself, "Oh, hey, thought we ran out of that one."

The little arts and crafts store got a surprisingly decent amount of business, it seemed. Enough for him to ask if she wanted to be part of their rewards system, which Amelia genuinely considered for a moment. The longer she pondered it, the more she questioned whether she really needed it; it wasn't like she had the time to come in as regularly as other people, and she was lucky enough to get paint supplies for almost every occasion—birthdays, holidays, gifts from family who happened to see it being given away.

"No, I'm good," she told him. He made quick work of scanning her supplies and bagging them, and Amelia wasted no time paying and fleeing. She had everything she needed; the sooner she could resume working on her piece, the better.

The bus ride back to her apartment left her alone with her thoughts. Her stress. She twisted the handle of the shopping bag over and over, flipped through messages on her phone like she was waiting for something to miraculously pop up. Some kind of sign that everything would be okay. That this wouldn't blow up in her face or something.

Amelia's thumb paused when she saw the previous night's exchange with her younger sister. Sophie was starting to come into her own a lot quicker than Amelia had expected her to. She was still quieter compared to their older brothers, but with Amelia there was a sort of energy that others missed out on. Sophie was busier for now, more tired than usual—she was spending late nights studying and waking up early to get just that little bit more in, and half of her study breaks were dedicated to naps apparently. Amelia wasn't able to visit, not until this current assignment was handled, but Sophie had expressed a strong desire for a weekend stay once it was done.

She opened the message, snorted a laugh to herself when she saw Sophie's crytyping over how agonising group assignments were, and decided to send her a little reminder. Sophie's reply was immediate: A long string of the letter H, her telltale stress call.

Amelia tried not to laugh again. As much as Sophie adored Hogwarts and pestered Amelia for details about what it was like, Amelia couldn't help but tell herself Sophie wouldn't survive being taught by Professor Snape for a single year—let alone seven. Muggle school was a sanctuary for Sophie, even if she didn't know it yet.

At least she wouldn't do as poorly as Amelia had at first. She was certain no one else in the entire school had a wand that just blew up in their face after a while like hers did.

The light mood didn't last for long. Amelia's bus stopped near her flat, and she was back to her stress even as she searched for her keys and unlocked the door. It was easy to remember that not everyone in her family was as enthusiastic about her witch status as Sophie was. Too easy, sometimes. She dropped her keys on the kitchen counter. She sighed. The bag of paints soon followed.

He was going to hate it. She didn't need any kind of magic to know that much. Amelia wasn't going to just leave the painting unfinished, or abandon it, but she wasn't going to hold out hope that this would solve everything.

She all but flopped over the back of the couch and sprawled out atop it. Amelia toed her shoes off and then began kicking her legs up and down like a child. She would never admit to the long, drawn out groan she forced upon the throw pillow in her face.

Making things not awkward with her brother was so _hard_. No matter what Amelia tried, he shut himself off or made some kind of remark that _clearly_ had another much more disdainful meaning behind it. And doing it in front of other family members was worse! Peter always found ways to sneak away or pretend like he'd never heard her. Everyone else would try and distract her, make her feel better, but it just let him ignore her longer!

Amelia wasn't sure what it was nowadays. Peter was technically the middle child, since the twins counted as two separate ages half the time, and both Amelia and Sophie were the babies of the family—for a time her parents had thought that was the reason, and even now she suspected it. When she was younger she used to think it was jealousy, being angry that Amelia had been the only member of the family to learn magic and experience a world they'd grown up reading about in books. Hell, sometimes she wondered if Sophie was jealous rather than just curious; it wouldn't be out of place if that was how Peter felt!

But after so many years of the cold shoulder, it was just hard to tell what his beef was with her. He wasn't as terse with the twins, and every so often Sophie would get offers for help in her schooling. It was just Amelia.

He wasn't going to be happy when she gave him the finished painting. He was probably going to take offense in her using one of his favourite hiding places as a kid for inspiration. He was probably going to scoff at her and say something like, "As if some painting is going to make things magically okay. You of all people should know that much."

Amelia grumbled into the pillow and stopped kicking her legs. She wasn't going to abandon the painting, but she sure as hell wasn't going to be happy with the final product. The nitpicking would never cease, and the stress would only amplify the closer she got to the day she told herself she'd give it to Peter.

She so desperately wanted to fix whatever it was she did to make him despise her—but she was running out of ideas fast, and there was only so much she could repair with a wave of her wand or a sincere apology.

* * *

"_One drop of belladonna in its purest distillate."_

* * *

_July 31st, 2019_

"Celia!" Her aunt's voice echoed through the narrow halls of the store. With careful hands, she set down the vase back in its soft, cushioned box, and turned for the storeroom door. "You have a visitor!"

Visitors at the store were a common part of the day. Visitor's for Celia were not. She picked up the pace a little, almost tripped over her feet at one point, before finally she was at the door leading to the storefront. Right now only Aunt Margie was manning the reception. She was smiling and gesturing about, trying to talk a customer into buying a rather expensive grandfather clock; further down in the store, Celia found as she crept through the door, was a lone man browsing the small trinkets displayed beneath a glass case.

Celia tightened the knot of her apron, the only thing mandatory about her work uniform, and assumed the man was here for her. It wasn't like Aunt Margie to leave a customer on their own, after all. He was rugged, even from behind; she hesitated a moment, wondering if maybe he'd wandered in off the streets, but continued walking once the smell of pine trees hit her nose. Uncommon, but familiar enough a scent that Celia couldn't keep herself from getting a little excited.

She smiled a little. She tucked some of her thick, brown locks behind her ear. She basked in the scent of a friend she hadn't seen in a long while.

Too long.

Despite the seven years that separated them, Russel was as much a friend of Celia's as anyone else her age. Perhaps more. Pinning down just what his relationship to her was tough, even after all these years, but settling with just friend was more than enough for Celia.

Blue eyes gazed at her, and his tired face broke out into an energetic smile. It was infectious—if Russel was excited, then he was definitely going to share that excitement with Celia. They shook hands, gave each other an awkward sibling-like hug, and while Aunt Margie continued serving customers Celia guided Russel back into the storage room.

"Just got back into town?" Celia asked him. She left the door ajar, a promise she'd made long ago to Aunt Margie whenever she was alone with anyone. Despite Celia being an adult, she could respect her guardian being a tad protective of her.

Russel shrugged. "Been back a while, honestly. Thought I'd stop by and see how you're going."

Celia laughed softly. "Liar," she drawled. "You're shaking all excited."

He raised his hands in surrender. Russel never could hide anything from Celia, not when she craved the adventure he would go on every so often. She sought out the signs of something big from him, and she was hardly ever wrong.

Not even today.

Russel wandered over to the lone chair in the room. He slumped into it and kicked his feet together, a tic of his that indicated how difficult it was to keep his composure. Oh, this was a big one, Celia thought with growing anticipation.

"How do I even _begin_?" he wheezed. He ran a hand through rugged hair, temporarily untangling a few knots along the way. "First of all: Deadline to when this thing happens? Two weeks, tops. Like, right after the full moon."

Celia's heart leapt into her throat. "We won't be on a time limit?"

"None."

She let out an uncharacteristically excited squeal. Having that much _freedom_—not only was this a big one, but it was a godsend as well! No looming anxiety over what day it was or whether she needed to stay locked up for the night! Just freedom!

"I can't give the full details yet, since it's all very hush-hush," Russel went on, "but I threw around some hypotheticals and—"

"Russ, you're killing me!" She was full of jitters. Her hands shook, her heart hammered away in her chest, and even her legs were turning to jelly.

"—and no fusses were made. I'm not gonna _admit_ anything, but it's going to be a… It'll be something normal for us. Properly normal."

Properly normal. The words brought all her excitement to a halt, her joints becoming cold at the more blunt reminder of what normal meant for her now. Normal was the life she lived now—properly normal was the life she could've had before Russel. Celia let herself relax, deep breaths filling the silence; she glanced at Russel, certain he would he avoiding her gaze, but he held it steady and waited for her to face him proper.

He opened and closed his mouth. He bit his lip. "I'm sorry, Celia," he said. His excitement was gone, much like her own. In its place was a somber, guilty tone. "Really. I know I say it all the time, but it's not going to be enough."

Like with every apology he would suddenly give her, part of Celia jumped to the venomous thought of, _So you should be!_ A lingering rage, a tiny ember of disquiet. Somehow it survived the years, survived like Celia had, but it was a silent thing.

_It wasn't your fault_, was the immediate amendment. She'd walked a mile in Russel's shoes, and then some—she knew damn well that he hadn't intended on ruining someone's life much like his own had been.

Before Celia could dismiss the apology, Russel went on, "Your aunt told me about the wolfsbane shortage. She wouldn't be having to keep up with buying them if I didn't, y'know…"

"She'd buy them anyway," Celia tried. "If not for herself or the shop, then for Bonnie to use somehow."

"The point still stands—"

"Point, shmoint. What's done is done and what I feel is what I feel. You made your bed, Russ. You made amends with me as soon as you found out what you'd done. It's more than what a lot of other people can say."

Russel sighed. His brows were still furrowed, worry lines still mapped his face; but there was a ghost of a smile among it all, another surrender to Celia. He gave in a lot when it came to her, like a doting elder brother who could never say no to his spoiled little sister. Celia added it to the mental checklist of things they could be considered.

"Stubborn," he huffed. Celia patted him on the shoulder and shook her head.

"You can thank yourself for that. Though I reckon I'm a bit better at it than you are." With that, she backed herself over to the cushioned box and pulled out the vase to resume cleaning it. All the heavy stuff was over and done with, the song and dance completed with no need for an encore. Now she could fish for details on this job, and maybe keep herself a little more composed than earlier. "So tell me about this gig. Need to know how many days ahead I need to prepare—I _do_ have something going on before the full moon."

"Yeah?" Russel leaned back in the chair. He was curious, head tilted to the side like a child. "You never go anywhere. What's the occasion?"

She wiped at the vase with a soft cloth. "A former classmate from Gryffindor is getting married. Kinda… feel obligated to go. He went out of his way to help keep things underwraps—super smart, figured it all out within a few months. I wanna wish him well and… maybe thank him."

Russel let out an intrigued hum. "Don't come across a kid like that often. What's his name? I wanna send a card with you and thank him too."

She snorted at the idea. Now _that_ would go over well, just waltzing up to the groom on his big day with some kind of novelty card. Maybe even a bit of, _Thanks for not tattling!_ in big bubble-shaped writing inside.

Celia turned the vase over in her hands. She didn't want to miss any spots, not when this was due to go out for auction tomorrow. "Leopold Ainsworth. I think he's… two years younger than me? Good kid."

Russel didn't respond.

Celia furrowed her brows. No witty remark? Nothing on the name? Surely a comparison to someone with the same name in history? She lowered the vase again, covered it with the cloth as though tucking it in to sleep. When she turned to face Russel again, she expected to repeat herself and get his attention.

She hadn't expected the blinding gleam of excitement in his eyes.

* * *

"_A quart of blood from a half-being_—_slain by an acromantula."_

* * *

_August 4th, 2019_

He'd been coming in for a few weeks now, making adjustments to his suit and checking the progress in between fittings. She had no earthly clue why he'd need to come in so often, when all he'd ordered was a three-piece that was vastly easier to make compared to most orders in the store, but this young man just kept persisting.

He had a pretty good poker face, she found. The latest adjustments were done today, and he was standing in front of the mirrors as he fixed the coat and inspected the vest. Not a single clue on his face as to whether or not it met his standards.

It almost made Keira want to scream at him to at least show _some_ kind of reaction—good or bad, she didn't care. But she held fast, customer service face perfectly in place and her posture relaxed as she waited for him to voice his thoughts.

He furrowed his brows. Keira had to hold herself back from bristling. She wasn't sure if it was a pureblood thing, or if it was exclusive to this guy, but the furrowed brows were _always_ the first step in a reaction. It always put her more on edge than she already was.

"Hm," he grunted. He tucked his hands into his pockets and turned to Keira. "Fits like a glove."

Keira let out a breath she wasn't even aware she was holding. _Madam Malkin's_ didn't pay her enough to suffer through all this tension with customers.

The man collected his suit, boxed up neatly once Keira got them back, and left the store with a bit of a huff to him. Part of her just _knew_ he was going to go home and complain about it, that it wasn't as perfect as he wanted it to be. It _would've_ been fine if he'd stopped coming in for refittings every third day, but Keira wasn't about to get into a fight with a customer over something like that.

So she settled for turning to her coworker, Darla, and mocking the man with a comically deep voice. "_Fits like a glove_," she grunted. Darla had to fight back laughter at the look on Keira's face, but she always failed miserably at that much.

"He's out of your hair, at least. And your next appointment today is a pickup."

Keira crossed her arms in front of her chest and sighed. Things always got busier this time of year, and as much as she loved the customers coming in to pick up their robes and formal outfits without so much as a fuss, it was the parents of some of those customers that made her crave the sweet release of death. She wouldn't say that out loud, though—Darla would flip out and panic over a very muggle joke, all because she just didn't know it was a joke.

But it was a big fucking mood, regardless of it going unsaid.

Darla was right about her next client being easier to handle. The fittings, the real nightmare of it all, were long since done with—all there was left was for the respective parties to pick up the packages. And they were some of Keira's best work, if she said so herself. It wasn't often that _Madam Malkin's_ got orders for an entire wedding entourage—groom, bride, bridesmaids, groomsmen, the whole shebang. The lot of them had been rather pleasant, too, for the most part. The groom, despite his pureblood status, was very blasé about blood purity. It had to have been a thing with the younger generations, Keira thought—he was only twenty, and even she had to admit that times changed _very_ quickly despite the mere four-year difference between them.

That bride, though. Keira pinched at her brow and went out back to double check the packages. She'd never met someone so absolutely… _slow-witted_. Simple? It was hard to describe the blonde without being outright rude. At least her bridesmaids were helpful, and it'd helped that she was the agreeable type when things were phrased like a compliment.

It was almost comically timed, how the groom and a few of the bridesmaids and groomsmen walked in just as Keira began pulling the packages out of the storage room ahead of time. She wanted to save some trips, at the very least, but it looked like she was just going to have to stick to the same amount as usually intended. The groom led the party, his bride nowhere in sight, and he had a big smile on his face as he was greeted by Darla.

As soon as he laid his eyes on Keira, his smile seemed to brighten. "Miss Kapoor!" he cheered in greeting. Keira set down the first lot of packages and smiled back at him.

Leopold Ainsworth seemed like a nice enough guy. Never kicked up a fuss when mistakes were made—which were few and far between, Keira could proudly attest to—and he even went out of his way to make sure he wasn't overwhelming the staff. Some days she wished all her customers had Leopold's manners.

"Nice timing," she told him. The first lot of packages was handed off to a bridesmaid, who silently thanked Keira before disappearing to the back of the group. "I hope I left enough time for alterations. Things can change between being fitted and actually getting the clothes."

Leopold waved a hand dismissively. Out of the corner of her eye, Keira caught Darla heading for the storage room for the rest of the packages. "Plenty, Miss Kapoor. We really appreciate all the work you've done already."

"Well," she tried, "you did give me some fun designs to bring to life. I daresay I'm proud of your fiancé's dress."

He was clearly excited by the confession. Darla returned with more packages, which were swiftly handed off to a groomsman. This one didn't move to the back of the group, though, and instead furrowed his brows at Keira as though trying to figure some mystery out.

Leopold was surprisingly sharp, given his sunny disposition, so Keira wholly expected him to notice the confusion. She definitely helped him notice—much like the man with the curly brown hair in a high fade quiff, Keira was giving him a somewhat puzzled stare as well. He seemed familiar, like she'd seen his face from somewhere on a poster or in the newspaper, but just couldn't place _where_.

Leopold, helpful as ever, told her, "Miss Kapoor, you've heard of Deacon Hendrich, right? Plays for the Appleby Arrows."

Keira let out a soft, "Ah," and relaxed some. Quidditch player; that would do it. You saw their faces everywhere, but unless you were dedicated to a team or rivalry the faces became a little blurry. Leopold turned to Deacon, then, and continued on with his ever so helpful explanations.

"Deacon, you would've been at Hogwarts around the same time as Miss Kapoor, I think." He didn't so much as pause even when Deacon dryly told him that Leopold was just a year younger than him. "Ah, but I believe Miss Kapoor went by a different name?"

Keira bristled. _Don't say it_, she thought. _If you know it, don't say it_. She was damn proud of her name and she wasn't about to have some ditzy pureblood call her anything else. Let alone _spread_ the wrong name to other purebloods.

"I can't recall," Leopold went on. "But you were in Hufflepuff, right, Miss Kapoor?"

Deacon's expression only got drier. "She was in _neither_ of our houses, then."

"I was," she said, a bit too tersely. Darla returned with another stack of packages. How many more were left? Keira lost count already. The bride and groom had a large ensemble attached to them. "And I'd… much rather not bring up my teenage years. We all have times we'd rather not dwell on."

Deacon turned away from her. He didn't look as displeased now; if anything, he seemed glad that Keira wasn't indulging Leopold's attempt at reminiscing. "Agreed," he sighed. "Teenagers can do stupid things, after all."

Well. Stupid was one word for it. Maybe too harsh a word, but a word nonetheless.

As soon as Deacon was at the back of the group with the others, Leopold changed the subject to something a little more current. He reached for his purse, sifting through it for the remaining money he owed the store, and met Keira at the counter proper. Darla continued to bring out packages, until finally she stopped altogether.

_The last lot_. This sudden awkwardness would finally end.

"Oh, I hope this isn't too sudden," Leopold began. Keira hesitated to take the money from him. "The twelfth of this month. Are you free?"

Keira furrowed her brows. "That's…"

"The wedding, yes."

"I believe so?"

Leopold's eyes lit up like candles. "Please, would you consider attending? Clotilde and I would appreciate it so much, and it feels unfair that you won't see all your hard work on display."

She reluctantly took the money from him and counted it, her reply slow so as not to lose count. "Wouldn't I be crowding the place? With the rest of the guests, I mean."

He waved a hand at her. "We had enough people pull out to ask if anyone wanted to attend. It feels fitting—" he stopped to chuckle to himself, like the word _fitting_ inside a clothing store was a decent pun "—to ask the woman who helped us dress the part before anyone else."

Keira finished counting the money and pursed her lips. It still felt weird, being invited on such short notice. But would it be rude to decline him when he just wanted to show his appreciation? Most people just sent a bouquet of flowers or something and called it a day. Not… this.

She weighed her options as she handed him his receipt. Weddings were ridiculously formal, so her usual pub behaviour wouldn't slide. But weddings also had open bars. And if they had an open bar, they at _least_ had some wine.

Very, very good wine. Wine Keira had to skip dinners just to afford.

She nodded and shrugged. "Alright. Send an owl to the shop and I'll be there. I kind of would like to see how everyone looks together, anyhow."

Leopold couldn't thank her enough as he left the store with his entourage.

* * *

"_A quart of blood from a vampire_—_or a being infected with vampirism."_

* * *

_August 5th, 2019_

The girl in the seat next to him sucked in a sharp, startled breath. He didn't look over, not yet, but he could hear the rummaging and panic that came with her bag being unzipped.

"Oh God," she mumbled. "No. Oh God, no."

He didn't look up from his book. He was content with half-listening, wondering if her issue would be resolved on its own. Getting involved with strangers was never really something he liked doing. Besides, he was in unfamiliar territory—what if stepping in to help this poor woman went _way_ differently than it would in Spain?

She was fumbling around with something. Her movements ceased for a fraction of a second, only to resume again with her leg hopping up and down. Anxiety. Enzo let himself glance, just a fraction, in her direction. She was about ready to tear off her fingernails with how hard she was biting down on them. Her phone was in her other hand, pressed against her air with white knuckles, and then she was letting out a short whine as what must have been voicemail greeted her.

"_Levi_," she hissed into the phone. She was clearly trying to keep the other people around her from hearing. "_My ticket. I left my ticket at home. Answer your phone, I'm begging you_."

Enzo pursed his lips and raised his brows. Oh, this young lady was in trouble. He cast a quick glance to the large clock hanging above the dock, and he almost choked on his own breath. This Levi person had better answer their phone ASAP—the ferry was due to leave in fifteen minutes, if she was lucky. Even as he noted the time, he could see the ferry itself approach at a steady pace.

He actually felt a little bad for her as the seconds ticked by.

She tried to call Levi again, only to leave another frantic voicemail in her wake. She was jittery now, rummaging through her bag a second time, then a third, before finally she sniffled and called herself an idiot. Still, after all that, she hadn't noticed Enzo staring out of the corner of his eye at her from nearby.

This was making him feel bad. The longer he stared, the more he started comparing the panicked girl to a distressed puppy looking for its favourite toy. He bookmarked his page and set down his novel softly, and Enzo did his darndest to look through his travel bag for his own ticket without alerting her. _Tickets_, more like, he reminded himself. He'd bought two, but the damn service refused to refund him once it became apparent that Olympia was too sick to travel—even with potions to aid the recovery process.

The tickets had arrived in the mail on the same sheet of paper, rather than their own separate dockets; he only had use for one of them, and cutting the other one off of the sheet would just ruin his own ticket. So it stayed, and by some stroke of luck it'd come in handy.

The sheet came loose from the bag, and Enzo gave it a quick once-over before unfolding it at the crease. Definitely two tickets, and neither his nor Olympia's names were on them. They wouldn't get in trouble if he just offered to let her use his spare ticket, that much he was sure of. And as far as he knew, the only ferry coming that would warrant panic over a lost ticket was due for Belfast—the ferry to Dublin wasn't for another few hours, which would've left her plenty of chances to go back and get her ticket from home.

In its own strange way, luck was smiling on the girl today.

Enzo coughed into his hand, a weak attempt at getting her attention. The girl paused, the tips of her ears turning the faintest of pinks, but she soon resumed her searching and panicking. Enzo rolled his eyes. He leaned forward, coughed a little louder, and called to her in a whisper, "Excuse me."

When she turned to look at him, distressed and apologising for the fuss she was making, he swore there was something familiar about her. Enzo blinked a few times, taken aback—now that he'd made the sad puppy comparison, wasn't there someone else he knew who fit that description? He pushed the thought from his mind; he could dwell on that later, when he had time to kill on the ferry.

"Are you heading to Belfast?" he asked her, cutting her off mid-apology. The girl's hazel, almost brown eyes went wide as the question processed.

"I—Ideally," she mumbled. She sat back down and twiddled her thumbs, the red of her ears spreading to the rest of her face. "You… heard me earlier, didn't you?"

"We're sitting a bit too close for me not to," he said matter-of-factly. She flinched, buried her face in her hands, and let out a _very_ puppy-like whine. There was that specific comparison again. This was going to bother him until he remembered _who_ he used to compare to the animal. "I'm guessing you don't have much time to go back and get it."

She shook her head, still hiding behind her hands.

"Well…" Enzo scooted closer. He dragged his bag and book with him, and slid the tickets towards her in the hopes of getting attention. "My fiance was meant to come with me, but she's sick. The company doesn't do refunds, either. Maybe you can use my spare?"

Through the gaps made by her fingers, there was a newfound hope in her eyes. She glanced, quick and uncertain, between Enzo and his tickets. It wasn't hard to understand her disbelief, honestly. What kind of stranger would just offer a spare ticket because they so happened to have one? Why would a stranger have bothered to bring a spare ticket with them at all?

Enzo was about ready to rescind the offer, suddenly all too aware of how _convenient_ it seemed to someone much more cautious than him, but she slowly lowered her hands and stared at him with those big, puppy eyes. She looked about ready to burst into tears, he thought with a shred of horror.

"I—I'll pay you back!" she insisted. Enzo raised his brows. She was accepting his offer? Thank goodness, he was sure she was going to report him for being a creep or something. Spain and England were very, very different, after all.

"No need," he told her. "It's getting used, so I'm getting my money's worth at least."

She pursed her lips, still a little hesitant; but finally, with her posture slowly relaxing, she nodded and accepted his offer. "I'm sorry your fiance couldn't come with you today," she told him.

Enzo shrugged. Sometimes you couldn't help being sick. "She wanted to," he said, "but she wouldn't have lasted the plane ride over—much less the additional ferry ride."

"You came from outside of England?" She smiled at him, curious and suddenly very interested in his and his fiance's home. Enzo nodded slowly, to which she went on, "Were you born here?"

"No, born in Spain," he said. Her eyes twinkled at the new knowledge. "I did a lot of schooling in England. Well, Scotland. But most of the students and teachers had London accents. You can't really hear the Spanish accent anymore when I speak English."

"Oh! Whereabouts in Spain are you from? I used to go to school with an exchange student from there."

He bit his tongue when he thought to tell her that Spain wasn't _that_ small a country. Instead he pretended to consider it, and answered, "Madrid. But I had to stop in France for a while before coming here."

"You're a worldly one!" She giggled and smoothed out her jacket. All the anxiety she'd been throwing out in waves had been reduced to a mere trickle. "My old classmate was from Madrid, I think. Shame I never kept in touch after we graduated."

Enzo shrugged. Luck had certainly been on her side today, and the amount of coincidences she was finding in Enzo's life story wasn't something to shirk at. He was sure she would unwittingly use her luck to reunite with her old classmate.

"It's a small world," he told her. She nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly with a smile. "Give it time."

She couldn't argue with that sentiment, it seemed. "You're right. Besides, it's not like I'm an old lady who can't go out looking," she joked. Enzo huffed a small laugh. And then, with a horrified gasp, the girl's smile faded and was replaced with distress again. "Oh God! Where are my manners? All this chattering and I haven't even introduced myself!"

"To be fair, neither have—"

She thrust a hand towards him. Through the corner of his eye, he could see the ferry almost arriving at the dock.

"My name's Lena. It's not to meet you—and thank you for your generosity!"

Enzo blinked. Ever so slowly he let his hand rise, take her own, and he gave it a soft shake. Lena, Lena… Much like the canine comparisons, the name rang a bell. Someone from work in the Spanish Ministry? No, that couldn't be it…

"Enzo," he told her. "It's… nice to meet you, too."

Despite the ample opportunity to part after boarding the ferry, Enzo found himself in the company of Lena and passing the hours not with his nose in a book, but in deep conversation about their plans for Belfast. Lena was staying with a friend, who only got today off of work to pick her up—which was why losing her ticket was such an ordeal. Enzo was staying at a hotel until a party he was invited to concluded. The hours flew by the longer they talked, and soon enough the shores of North Ireland awaited them.

It wasn't until he and Lena went their separate ways—Lena into her friend's tiny Beetle and Enzo to the nearby bus stop—that it finally clicked. That the image of a young girl with the same name flew through his mind, a classmate of the same House during his exchanges to Hogwarts. A young girl so excitable and bold that it was easy to spot her among a crowd of dogs once the Animagus changed her form.

It seemed, he noted as the Beetle rolled out of the parking lot, that Lena realised the same far, far too late. The last he saw of her, her face was pressed against the passenger window and her mouth agape, very clearly some kind of scream being made as she did so.

_Small world, indeed_.

* * *

"_The intact heart of a human_—_killed by a mixture of belladonna and arsenic."_

* * *

_August 8th, 2019_

The tiny pitter-patter of Willa's feet drowned out the silence that had befallen the room. He held his arm across his eyes, forcing out the world around him. Closer and closer she approached, and only once did those tiny footsteps come to a halt: Outside Marcelis's door.

He swallowed thickly. Was it that time already? He swore he had a few more minutes to go. Maybe he was losing track of time, still being hit with bouts of microsleep so early in the morning. A small fist knocked on his door, and with a hollow click it began to slide open.

Marcelis didn't remove his arm from his face.

"Master Virrone, it's almost time for your appointment." Willa's high voice was a welcome greeting to the morning. The sun wasn't quite over the horizon yet, but she always made rising before daylight feel a little less like an ordeal. "Shall I put the kettle on?"

Marcelis sucked in a deep breath and groaned. "Please, Willa," he said, still a little groggy. He'd have to shake that off before the doctor got here. "Is there any chamomile left?"

"Enough for this morning," the house elf reported. "I'll send an order for more while you're at work, sir."

"Thank you, Willa."

With that exchange, Willa's pitter-pattering resumed. Down the halls, further and further away from where Marcelis could hear her. Finally, she disappeared beyond his hearing, and Marcelis forced himself to open his eyes.

This room always looked so drab in the dim light of morning. Not quite empty, but certainly not his own. He never really knew what to decorate with, only ever defaulted to "neat" and "professional". Marcelis blinked up at the ceiling. He fixed his gaze on the lights directly above his bed. Right, his doctor had suggested working on that. He'd have to apologise during the session today.

No, apologise wasn't right. What was it he was told to practice? Thanking someone for their patience? He wasn't sure thanking his doctor for his patience was necessary—the younger man had the patience of a saint. Whatever it was he had to do, it would still lead to actually giving his bedroom some personality.

After the wedding, he decided. Maybe he could take a souvenir home and use that as a starting point.

He buttoned his robe and tucked his hands into its pockets. Bare feet slipped into a pair of slippers, and then Marcelis began his wander towards the sitting room. The home visits helped a lot. Saved a lot of shame in being seen in need of help. Saved gossip from being birthed in the Ministry. Marcelis yawned and raked a hand through his hair, pinched at his eyes to wake himself up a bit more; before he knew it, he was at the door to the sitting room and hearing Willa's pitter-pattering again.

Marcelis opened the door before Willa could stop him. "Master Virrone, please don't worry about me," she half-scolded him. Marcelis felt a little nostalgic at the tone she took. "Let _me_ take care of _you_. I know how draining your appointments can be at times."

He followed her inside, keeping a small distance from her and the floating tea tray as he did so. "I don't mind," he yawned. "Today feels okay."

She tutted at him. The tea tray landed softly on the small coffee table between the only couches in the room, and without missing a beat Marcelis sank into one couch and began pouring himself some tea. At the far side of the room was a large fireplace, the usual point of entrance for his doctor. It made the home visits a lot easier for the both of them, in his opinion. Messy, sure, but it wasn't an ordeal to clean the soot from the floor.

The smell of chamomile brought him some semblance of peace to start the day. Not every morning was as calm as this, and not every appointment tackled issues he was eager to resolve. But Marcelis needed to make progress, and progress was sometimes painful. Too painful to bear, but learning how to bear it was part of the process he had to familiarise himself with.

He sipped at his tea and let the flavour sit for a while. Savoured it. As Marcelis swallowed and let out a long, tired breath, a flash of light burst through the fireplace and the smell of ashes overpowered the scent of chamomile.

He'd enjoyed it while it lasted.

The young man that emerged from the fireplace casually brushed off the soot from his clothes. He patted down his suitcase, tapped his shoes toe-first against the floor, and ran a hand through his hair for good measure. Once he looked over at Marcelis, who was patient enough to wait as usual, the casualness turned into something more akin to professionalism.

"Good morning, Marcelis," Doctor Maleficent-Roufenge—no, _Florence_, he'd told Marcelis to call him—greeted. With most of the soot from the fireplace gone he made his way over and settled into their bimonthly routine.

Florence poured himself some tea, opened his suitcase, and held a kind gaze with Marcelis as he waited for the older man to reply.

"G'morning," Marcelis tried. Florence nodded once, pleased, and pulled out his notepad.

"How are we feeling today?" Florence started. The usual spiel. Just a lead-in to the bigger topics while also making sure Marcelis hadn't fumbled. "Anything happen since the last time we spoke?"

Marcelis set down his tea and leaned back into his couch. "Work is stressful," he reported. "But that's not new. I don't mind the pressure at times."

"Yes," Florence agreed. "No career is without its more hectic moments."

Both men paused for a moment. The lull was enough to brace Marcelis for the question that Florence always asked, yet he was never prepared to answer.

"How are you doing with your work area?" Florence crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward. "I understand you've needed to take the elevator quite a lot for work lately."

Marcelis clenched his hands into fists. He sucked in a deep breath and tried his best not to run his hands through his hair. Florence would know for sure the depths of his stress over this subject if he did.

"If I don't have to use them often," he said slowly, "I can manage."

"But when you do?"

He worked his jaw. Something changed in Florence's gaze—he knew, or at least had some idea of just how tense Marcelis was merely thinking about it. "Downtime from work is when it kicks in the most," he admitted. Florence nodded, didn't prompt him to go on before he was ready. "The days where I'm too exhausted—sometimes I don't have my guard up enough. Willa's told me that she's heard me… crying, I suppose. In my sleep."

"Nightmares?" Florence asked softly. Marcelis nodded. "And it's only the nights you're too tired to prepare for sleep?"

"Too tired to do anything. I love the work I do, but it's draining. Some of the energy I put into it, I don't realise how much I need it back at home until it's too late."

"You're passionate about your work," Florence told him. "It's understandable. But…"

"_But_," Marcelis finished for him, "I need to make sure I'm well enough to continue being passionate."

Florence gave him a half-smile. Normally he wouldn't phrase it that way, but Marcelis got the gist of it. If he burned himself out beyond repair, he wouldn't be able to muster up the passion for the things he wanted to do in life.

The session went on like that a little more—Florence asking a tentative question, not forcing anything of Marcelis, and Marcelis answering truthfully for the sake of his treatment. He could trust Florence, he knew, but saying these things out loud felt surreal sometimes. Admitting to feeling what he felt, that he was still bothered by the trauma of the past, it felt like he wasn't even himself sometimes.

But then Florence moved on to the lighter half of the session. He asked about Marcelis's plans, what he was looking forward to for the week. After finding out Marcelis was quite the Ballycastle Bats fan, he would bring up recent games and ask for his opinions on the players' performances. Apparently Florence had a few teams he had his eye on, but like Marcelis he paid more attention to the Ballycastle Bats—according to Florence, a friend of his was almost scouted for the team. Sometimes Marcelis wished he'd seen her play, make a judgement as to whether she'd fit in with the other pros. But that was in the past, and much like Florence reassured him every time he wished things were different during his teenage years, the future was still his to shape with his own hands.

"Ah," Marcelis said after a good chat about the most recent victory for the team, "I just remembered. I heard from Laurent for the first time in… God, I can't remember how long."

"Yeah?" Florence raised his brows. "How did it go?"

"He invited me to come with him to this wedding. Some underclassmen of his got engaged and invited him, and he asked to bring a plus one." Marcelis ran his hands through his hair. Ah, he did it. He'd forgotten he was trying to hold back that particular nervous habit.

Florence discretely made a few notes on his pad. "Did you want to go with him?"

"I… don't know. I know it won't be as crowded as the Ministry gets at times, but it's still a lot of energy I'll have to set aside. I don't know the bride or groom personally, either. He did say a lot of people we went to school with were invited, though."

"Maybe, if you're comfortable, you could go with him and catch up with your old classmates. Count it as a short break from work and recuperate a bit more. Weddings tend to be a good place to relax in between responsibilities."

Marcelis scrunched up his face. Florence stifled a laugh and shook his head.

"Just give it some thought. You don't have to go if you're not up to it. You might even come across something more your preference compared to the wedding. Just do what _you_ want to do, okay?"

He nodded. That was always the closing reminder Florence gave him, a small reassurance that he wasn't going to be controlled like he used to be. Marcelis had the power of his own fate in his hands. He had his own will. He could do whatever he wanted.

The session came to a close. As Florence finished his lukewarm tea and packed his suitcase, Marcelis walked him over to the fireplace and shook his hand. He was right—today felt okay. No bombshells of baggage dumped all over the floor, nothing to tense for him to tackle. Florence was easing them through the issues Marcelis had to confront, and he was working at a pace that Marcelis could handle.

"Thanks," Marcelis said just before Florence threw the Floo powder into the fireplace. Florence looked over his shoulder and gave him a friendly smile. "I'll… I promise I'll think about it."

"I know you will," Florence told him, voice so kind that it hurt. "You're doing amazing, Marcelis."

It was a farewell that brought a little bit more brightness to his morning.

Today was okay.

* * *

"_Seven inches of Lethifold cloth_—_dead for less than ten days."_

* * *

_August 9th, 2019_

For what felt like the umpteenth time, the box in his hands rattled violently. Armand let out a tired sigh as he leaned his shoulder against the wall of the elevator. They'd been at it ever since he confiscated them from an unsavoury sort looking to use them in fighting rings; unable to settle, even with the muzzles they wore and the little mitts covering the claws on each foot.

How long ago did he get proper rest? Armand wasn't sure. Every time his eyes started to close, his shoulders relaxing, that damn box rattled and the baby dragons kicked up another fuss. He'd already had to put up with so many eyes on him as he stalked the numerous halls, talked to the long list of bureaucrats waiting for his report; Armand was _tired_, but he was far from being done for the day.

That would've been a mercy, if someone else had finished this last stretch for him.

Though he didn't have an "official" office among the Ministry, it was still commonplace for beasts requiring rehabilitation or a foster home to be sent to a member of the Valie family like this one. They had a gift, not unlike the fictional Parseltongue from the books Rowling had been permitted to write before Armand had been old enough to know about them. If any beast was safe in someone's hands, it was a Valie's. Armand would normally be fine with working with the family, since some of them were decent.

But _this_ Valie…

He adjusted his grip on the box as the elevator dinged. This was the floor he wanted. The witches and wizards inside the elevator parted for him, and Armand managed a quiet thanks as he shuffled out. The member of the Valie family they had in the Ministry to collect wayward beasts was one Armand was far to familiar with. Same year at Hogwarts, always at odds because of the other man's _ridiculous_ love for basilisks. He could feel himself rolling his eyes as the memories of their arguments surfaced.

Basilisks were just _misunderstood_. They were _darlings_ as long as you wore mirrored goggles around them. Don't be such a _beastphobe_, Armand.

The dragons rattled the box again. Armand dug his nails into the thick wood and sucked in a deep, strained breath.

Just drop them off and leave. Don't even say anything to the guy. Just _ignore_ him.

Armand scoffed at himself and took a sharp turn into another hall. Like _that_ was easy. Armand could never ignore him when they were in school together, _especially_ not when Hogwarts hosted the Triwizard Tournament, so why would be start now? Damian Valie was living bait for an argument Armand Wesley would take in a heartbeat to prove his point.

He was so absorbed with Damian Valie and how much he got on Armand's nerves, that Armand didn't even notice the woman's voice calling after him as he traversed the halls. Only when the box rattled particularly violently did he pause, compose himself; only then did he hear another former classmate approach from behind, this one much more bearable than the Valie man.

Armand turned on his heel, making sure to at least greet her like a normal person. She wasn't annoying like _some_ people tended to be.

Kamilah hadn't changed much since graduating from Hogwarts. She was still girlish and trendy, still got people's attention with her personality and appearance combined. You could always rely on her to steal the show and spare you the embarrassment of the limelight, and that looked to still be true today. She jogged towards him, dressed more casually compared to the old, Sunday best that everyone else tended to wear, and like usual she wore a pair of white boots that somehow never got dirty. Armand couldn't remember the last time he wore anything white that stayed clean for more than an hour.

"Finally caught up to you," Kamilah puffed. She'd been looking for him? Armand was taken aback. Sure, this particular job had required him to work with a few aurors to make everything conclude as neatly as possible, but once the dragons were in his hands he never really needed to do anything else with the bounty hunters. They had their lane, the people committing the atrocities of the world, and he had his.

"Wasn't paying attention," he said lamely. Kamilah let out an understanding, if teasing, laugh. Armand shifted on his feet and adjusted his grip on the box again. "Did I miss something with the other aurors?"

Kamilah shook her head. "Nah, this is a personal visit. I never see you 'round unless some naughty wizard is smuggling creatures on top of everything else, y'know!"

Right. That was usually what their jobs called for, but he wasn't going to argue that point. He knew she meant to say they never saw each other outside of work. Correcting her would make her take a stubborn stance and Armand just wanted to be _done_ with this drop off.

"Besides," she went on, "I wanted to see the babies. Dami will be heading straight to the menagerie once he gets them, so I wanted to take a peek first."

Armand scrunched up his face at her.

"_And_ catch up with you, I guess," she added as an afterthought.

He pushed the box slightly towards her. "Maybe you'd like the make the delivery instead of me, then."

Her smile morphed into a playful grin. Oh, _no_, she wasn't about to pull the paperwork card on him, was she? She _knew_ how awkward things were between Armand and Damian! She knew that neither was fond of being alone with the other at this point, let alone in the Ministry at the same time.

"Sorry," she said, glib as he'd expected. "Not allowed. I wasn't cleared for transporting beasts. And we both know how _important_ it is we follow the rules to the letter here."

Armand let out a pitiful whine. "Kami," he started. She held up a hand to silence him.

"As entertaining as it is to watch you two dance around each other like two cats waiting to see who'll strike first, I _do_ have a good reason for being there while you're meeting with him. He's meant to tell me if Meri is coming to her sister's wedding or not."

"You got an invite, too?"

Kamilah gawked at him. "_You_ got invited, too?"

He scrunched up his face at her again

"I'm kidding, sourpuss. Also, if you're so hung up on seeing him, can't you do the thing where…" She gestured to his entire self. "Morph. Pretend you're not Armand."

Oh.

Armand hadn't thought to do that.

A few years working with his ability to fool people and change his appearance to his desire, and he never thought to just _avoid_ Damian by using it.

"I'm a bloody idiot."

"Please, dear, it's just the sexual tension clouding your rationality."

Armand scrunched up his face a third time, and as an added bonus he let loose a very loud, _very_ indignant scoff.

He got another laugh out of Kamilah at least. The box rattled rather softly this time, and she reached over to pat his shoulder. "You're so easy to _tease_, Wes!" she chuckled. "Seeing and recognising each other won't spell the end of the world, I promise. Now come on, the babies are getting antsy."

With that final reassurance, teasing as it was, Armand was led through the halls by an insistent Kamilah. With every step they took, he debated over what kind of appearance to take for the short exchange. Maybe a more rugged look, sharper angles to his face and the like. He definitely couldn't go full lumberjack, not when his clothes wouldn't accommodate such mass for that long. What else?

"Beard," Kamilah supplied helpfully. Armand repeated after her and let a magnificent, scruffy beard cover his face. And then he paused, asked himself if he'd had his mind read just now. He could've sworn he was a decent Occlumens. "Your anxiety is so loud that I can hear it over the dragons."

"Okay, now I _know_ you're using Legilimency."

"Not my fault you let your guard down to fuss over how you look."

By the time they reached the door to Damian's quasi-office, Armand had taken on a vastly different appearance. His long, hazelnut hair was now cropped short and platinum blond, and the thick beard he sported was the same colour—though for good measure he added a few grey hairs, not that Damian would scrutinise that much. His amber, snake-like eyes should've been a dull brown by now, and his smooth, mocha-cream skin was quickly making itself more bumpy, more scarred. Paler, just enough to seal the deal that he'd be unrecognisable.

He inhaled deeply and nodded to Kamilah. She was watching him, intrigued as always when he morphed in front of her. It was like being a Metamorphmagus was a spectacle for her, no matter how often Armand had practiced disguises near her at Hogwarts.

"Good to go," he told her. His voice was harder to change, but it was nothing a little improvised accent couldn't fix.

Kamilah knocked on the door and barely waited for an answer to open it. She waltzed inside, throwing a loud greeting out to Damian, and Armand became tense when he heard the man reply in kind.

They immediately jumped into talks of the wedding. Armand listened absently, his focus now on keeping up his disguise; he wandered in quietly, content with being ignored long enough to just slide the box onto the desk, but after a while it became apparent that he wasn't going to be overlooked.

As soon as he was level with Kamilah, Damian snapped his attention onto Armand. Well, not Armand. Whatever.

"Never seen you before," he said in place of a greeting. Armand began sorting through the accents he'd practiced, perfected, throughout the years. Any of them would do the trick for now! "Damian Valie. You are?"

His voice cracked, and the worst possible accent came out as he lied through his teeth, "Benny."

Armand could feel his soul leaving his body. He swore he'd just cringed so hard that he ejected himself into the astral plane. He could mimic people from Russia and South Africa and the deep south of America to a T, and he defaulted to a _chav_? A fucking _chav_!?

The way Damian wrinkled his nose and furrowed his brows, almost taken aback, made it pretty clear that Armand had made the worst possible choice.

And he still had the chav accent as he went on, "Dragons."

Damian leaned back in his seat and turned his wide, confused eyes to the rattling box being dumped onto the desk. God, this was almost getting as awkward as Armand looking normal near Damian. No turning back now, he told himself. Do or die time.

"Right…" Damian carefully reached out and dragged the box back towards him. "Was… waiting for these."

Armand grunted.

"By the way, Dami," Kamilah started up again. She cast a grint at Armand while Damian wasn't looking, the man too busy taking off his coat to drop the box off inside. Some days Armand wondered how he managed, having access to his menagerie through his jacket. Not quite an Extension Charm, but so close that it was easy to forget the actual incantation Damian would use. "Did you hear Armand got invited to the wedding too?"

Damian's entire body went limp except for the hands holding the box. He groaned, rolled his eyes as though possessed, and it went on for _much_ longer than necessary.

"Bad enough I have to be happy for _Thotilde_," he spat, "but _Armand_ is going to be there too?"

Armand bristled. Kamilah, you little imp…

"Come on, it won't be that bad. You said Meri is going too?"

"And I'm grateful for that. If Fee can make it, it'll be a reunion of the Bird Squad, long overdue yet new and improved."

Kamilah blinked, as did Armand. Bird Squad? When Kamilah asked what he meant, Damian grinned almost cheekily.

"Didn't any of us tell you?" he said. "Meri, Fee and me—we're all bird Animagi—"

Armand slammed his hands on the desk before he could stop himself. His disguise slipped away, regular old Armand replacing chav Benny and eliciting a scream from Damian, which only just drowned out Armand's screech of, "You're _what_!?"

Damian just stared at him in horror, barely gripping the box of dragons now that he'd had the living daylights scared out of him. But could he blame Armand? Were the idiots even _registered_? He had nothing against Ophelia and Meri, but the fact that they hung out with Damian throughout _all_ of their years at Hogwarts left plenty of room for concern.

"When the hell did that happen?" Armand went on. Damian lunged for his jacket and, in one swift movement, threw it on top of himself. The jacket encapsulated him, landing on the floor where he stood with a soft _thmf_.

Did that bastard just _remove himself_ from the situation?

And leave his one means of entry _and_ escape _in the same room as the person he was avoiding?_

"Wow. Would you look at that?" Kamilah deadpanned. She grabbed Armand by the arm and dragged him out with much more force than when she'd dragged him in. "Delivery finished. Kamilah didn't get to see the dragons. Damian and Armand gave each other heart attacks. Yay."

* * *

"_One pint, maybe more, of acromantula venom."_

* * *

_August 10th, 2019_

"You're sure about this, Rora?"

"As sure as I was fifteen minutes ago." She set down their plates for breakfast, only pausing to make sure Danielle hadn't run off in those split seconds she looked away. "Are you going to keep asking?"

Alfred deflated somewhat. It was obvious how against her plan he was—he'd made that _very_ clear every hour of every day since she'd told him about it. He wasn't giving up, not until the last minute, but she could see she was wearing him down. He may have been her older brother, but Aurora liked to think she was the more headstrong of the two.

"I'll be fine," she reassured him. Danielle was busy munching away at the pikelets Aurora had set aside for her, oblivious to the conversation in front of her. "It won't be any different to the work I did in Israel. It'll probably be safer, actually."

"But it's not completely safe," Alfred grumbled. Aurora hadn't sat down yet. She turned on her heel for the kitchen, reaching blindly into the fridge for a drink better left for later. The can of soft drink was opened with one hand, muffled by the other, and she was back at the table with it without Danielle noticing.

"Is anything completely safe?" she fired back at him. She took a quick sip and began attacking her pancakes with a fork.

Alfred leveled a glare at her. He stuffed a large piece of pancake in his mouth and said, "You know what I mean, Aurora."

Yeah. She knew. Aurora also knew that being glib wasn't helping her case much. But it was the best she could muster so early in the morning, especially after every other serious argument had been used over the week. She only had to hold her ground for a couple more days, and then Alfred would see she was capable of taking care of herself.

She'd faced worse than a wedding. She'd done more covert things than pretend to be a guest. Besides, if Elias was there, no one would question his wife being there as well. As far as the rest of the world knew, the couple weren't estranged and living in entirely different countries.

Well. Provided Elias hadn't divulged the result of their mutual break to anyone since she'd last spoken to him.

"I still don't see why you have to go through with this," Alfred went on. Aurora ate her own pancakes quietly. It was safe to let him get it all out of his system first thing in the morning, she decided. "You heard, right from the horse's mouth, what his stance is. You've done all you can to talk him out of it—what good is lingering on this mess going to do?"

Elias _had_ told her himself what he thought of muggles. And he hadn't backed down when she'd argued with him. But he'd been amicable about their break, about Aurora taking their daughter and moving back to England to live with her brother. The fact that he could be reasoned with for even that much was a good sign for her—he _could_ be talked down, given enough time.

She just needed proof that the people he was siding with were zealots. Were not the people he thought they were. Elias was just misguided. He claimed to want to join them for Danielle's sake, and the fact that he'd done it with her in mind gave Aurora _some_ flicker of hope.

He wasn't a lost cause. Not yet.

"I need to do this," she soft softly. Alfred bristled at her and sucked in a sharp breath. "Not just for my peace of mind, but also…"

When she glanced at Danielle, stuffing her face with the pikelets, Alfred leaned across the small table at breakneck speeds. "_No_," he hissed. "Don't you _dare_ use your daughter as an excuse for this. I get that you believe _he_ wants to do his thing for Dani's sake, but the truth is that you're both just using her as a shield."

Aurora dropped her fork and glared at him. Danielle even paused her eating, a muffled call breaking through the pikelets. How _dare_ he lecture her on what she should be doing for her daughter. Aurora may have been the younger sister, but _everything_ she did now that she and Elias were estranged was for Danielle's benefit. Aurora could've stayed, could've let her daughter's mind be polluted by the anti-muggle propaganda Elias snuck into the house. She could've let a _lot_ of things slide. But instead she took Danielle out of the danger zone and gave her a safe place to wait for it to calm.

She opened her mouth, venom on the tip of her tongue, but Alfred stopped her with a much more intense glare of his own.

"She's young enough to not question where daddy went," he hissed at her. "She's young enough to not know what's going on yet. You can just let her grow up normally—as normally as a witch can—and leave him be. Going after this group he's gotten himself involved in is just going to hurt you both."

"Danielle _needs_ her father in her life," Aurora fired back. What she didn't say was that she, too, needed Elias in her life. Their love was real, as real as the air she breathed. The only thing driving this rift between them was his misguided understanding of the muggle world and how its issues needed to be resolved.

"Danielle can have as many father figures as you want," Alfred told her. He pointed to himself and added, "Her _uncle_ can even be a father figure. It doesn't have to be her actual father."

Aurora bit her lip. "Elias needs help, Alfred. He doesn't understand muggles enough to know he's doing something wrong."

"Then why hasn't he listened to you sooner?" Alfred shoved more pancakes into his mouth, much like his niece,and chomped angrily away at them. It always came to that—why hadn't Elias listened to Aurora sooner, if he was just in need of guidance? No matter how much she tried to say it wasn't as easy as that, or even that Alfred was being as stubborn as Elias was when she'd tried in the first place, the question just wormed its way back to the surface and demanded to be answered. Demanded an answer that suited it.

The uncomfortable silence that followed was enough to turn her off her food. Aurora pushed her plate away, tapped at her can, and cast her gaze down to the table. Alfred sighed. He picked up both his plate and her own and took them into the kitchen.

As soon as her uncle was gone, Danielle waddled over to Aurora and grabbed her leg with an incessant shake. "Mumma," she yelled. Aurora sucked in a deep, steeling breath and reached down for the toddler.

She knew using Danielle as an excuse was selfish. But it was still the truth. Elias wanted Danielle to grow up in a world dominated by a caste system, by a clear Us vs. Them mentality that would only jade the child as she grew older. Aurora wanted to keep Danielle's future clear, free of such prejudices and hatred. Free of the violence that would inevitably come with such a view. As much as Elias loathed the muggles, citing their existence for what had happened in Israel, he was being hypocritical in his "solution".

Aurora wiped some of the maple syrup from Danielle's face. The toddler fussed, whining at her not to, but she wasn't about to let that stuff dry. Washing Danielle's face later would be a nightmare if the syrup was left to gather fluff from around the house.

As she hugged Danielle, asking her if she enjoyed breakfast, Alfred crept back into the dining room and took his seat once more. Aurora didn't greet him.

"Rora," he started, softer than before. She didn't look at him, but he definitely got Danielle's attention. "I can understand why you want to do this. I can. But I need _you_ to understand that if something goes wrong, Dani's not just going to be losing a father in all this."

Aurora hugged Danielle tighter. That would never happen. She was tougher than that. It was just a wedding, just intel gathering.

"I know you can dig around for her sake," he went on, "but you can just as easily walk away for her sake as well."

She could. God, she knew she could. Danielle would be none the wiser, and maybe the group would fizzle out on its own. Maybe Elias would even see the error of his ways on his own, have an epiphany at the last possible second. But…

"How can I just let other families go through what we've had to?"

Alfred deflated once more. He rose from his chair, approached the mother and daughter in silence. He didn't offer much in the way of words, but he didn't need to; he leaned down, arms spread wide, and pulled his sister and niece into his embrace. It was tired, all the fight having left his body.

_I give up_, the embrace told her. _I can't fight about this anymore_.

Aurora reached up and held his arm, keeping Danielle balanced on her lap as she did so. She knew he would run out of steam eventually—she _knew_, because it always ended this way when she set her mind to something. But in a way, Alfred still won some part of the fight with his surrender. He'd done his part, paved the way for the easy road that Aurora could walk with Danielle in her arms.

But she still needed to do this. Elias still had hope.

"I'll be careful," she told him. Alfred hugged her a little tighter. Danielle squirmed impatiently. "I promise, I'll come home as soon as possible. No stupid decisions."

Alfred sniffed as he finally pulled away. He patted Aurora on the head, a small affection to close the embrace, and turned for the kitchen again. "I know you will," he mumbled.

* * *

"_One pint, maybe more, of basilisk venom."_

* * *

_August 11th, 2019_

She was really pushing her luck today. No, not just today; if she was honest, she'd been pushing her luck for… at _least_ three years now. She was just much more aware of it today than usual.

Awareness was not a good look for her.

"Y'know," she drawled. The hands at her feet didn't pause, holding her in place as the person beside them applied the gaudy nail polish. "When I told myself Florida was a nice place to visit, I was hoping to witness firsthand a lot more 'Florida Man' incidents."

"Disappointment," the Norwegian girl painting her nails agreed.

Ophelia pursed her lips. Yeah, that was a word for the lack of muggle chaos. But it also didn't help to distract her from what was really getting under her skin lately. She'd been hitchhiking around Florida for… a week now? And even before that she'd been cruising around America. The invitation had somehow made its way to her, and now she was at a crossroads.

Support her friend who _might_ have been invited? Or pass because the bride was a pain in the ass?

It was a tough call.

Ophelia leaned back into the small couch and stared at the redhead behind her. He was reading through a magazine, clearly content to wait his turn with the nail polish. He didn't even so much as look at Fee as she called, "Hey, Rolf."

Rolf hummed and flipped a page.

"Say you have this best friend," she started, and he immediately rolled his eyes and muttered a prayer. "Shut up. I need guidance."

Ideally she would've asked someone else, but they were the only people in the hostel right now. All the other tourists had moved on the day before, and out of everyone she'd run into on the trip around America so far, Rolf was the one Ophelia had spoken to most.

He was going to listen to her moral dilemma and he was going to like it.

"So you have this best friend," she tried again, "and, like, this best friend has a dumber, younger sister—"

"My good bitch," Rolf said without an ounce of life to his voice, "I cannot unrecommend sleeping with dumb younger sister enough."

"Oh my God, no. First of all, I'd sooner strangle her than sleep with her—"

"Not helping your case."

"Shut _up_. Second, I'm not done with my question."

He snapped the magazine shut and turned to look at her. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and forced a very large smile onto his face. "Continue," he said.

"Dumb younger sister invited me to her wedding," Ophelia sighed. The girl painting her toenails gasped excitedly, but unlike Rolf she didn't interrupt her. "Last I heard of the dumb younger sister, she got really mad at my friend and they weren't on speaking terms. And I never liked dumb younger—"

"Just call her the sister."

"Interrupt me again and I'll add two more adjectives."

Rolf scoffed, indignant.

"_Anyway_, we hate each other. She's _super_ classist and I'm _super_ not rich enough to be around her, apparently." Ophelia rolled her eyes. This was as good as she'd get when describing Clotilde's shitty blood purity phase in school. Rolf and the other backpackers were still muggles, after all. "But she still invited me to her wedding. Now, do I go on the off chance that _maybe_ best friend and dumb, stupid, younger sister made up and have fun with my best friend? Or do I pass and just ignore it in case it's like, totally some kind of stuffy event I know I'm gonna hate because best friend isn't there?"

He was silent for a moment. Ophelia raised her brows at him, waiting patiently for him to say _something_. He had plenty of quips before, but now he was just still as a statue as he stared at her. Ophelia cleared her throat, watched as he blinked with that same fake smile on his face.

"When is dumb sister's wedding?" he finally asked.

Ophelia frowned at him. "The twelfth of August. Why?"

Rolf looked over at the nearby wall, where a small calendar hung to keep track of who was due to leave and when. He paused for a moment, sucked in a deep breath, and then he was back to his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands.

"_Herregud_," he practically sobbed.

"The fuck's that mean?" Ophelia pawed at the cushion beneath her and did her best to throw it at him. Rolf caught it easily, and the girl painting her nails smacked her shin without a hint of mercy.

"You're smudging it!" she snapped. Ophelia laid back down and groaned. It wasn't her fault that Rolf was being an ass about giving her advice!

He seemed to be genuinely considering what to say, though. Instead of immediately sassing her again or calling her his good bitch, which was usually a good sign that the answer should be _obvious_ to her (according to Rolf, at least), he just contemplated in silence and picked at the seams of the cushion.

Nail polish remove was dabbed on her toe. Ophelia supposed she would have to wait until he was ready. It wasn't like she'd given him all the details that would make things easier to sift through—the delicate parts of her dilemma were too tired to the wizarding world, as well as her family. Family was… the last thing she wanted to think about. Much less let influence her decision.

There was a soft pat to her foot. Ophelia lifted her head, looking down at the Norwegian girl and noticing that her nails were done. The other girl with her was already packing up the polish and remover.

"I think you should go," she told Ophelia. "Even if you don't see your friend there, you might make new ones!"

Oh, you naive child. Ophelia gave her a pitying smile and laid back down.

"Also," she went on, "since I'm a dumb younger sister, I can tell you that this, ah…" She clicked her fingers. "_Dødelig fiende?_"

Ophelia could _vaguely_ guess what she was calling Clotilde. She wasn't far off. Ophelia nodded.

"She's inviting you to make sure best friend attends. It's what I had to do to make sure my parents came to my graduation."

"Oh." Ophelia looked away quickly. That was… a loaded answer. Definitely not the direction she expected it to take. "I, ah… see?"

The girl beside her, who had not said a word at all prior to the topic, finally sighed and looked back at Ophelia. Ophelia didn't even know where she'd come from—Rolf and the other girl were open about their travel plans, but this one was very private. Not much different from Ophelia, if personal stuff was brought up.

"Listen," she said, and there was a very thick Dominican accent as she spoke, "at the end of the day, you do what you want. It's why you're in Florida, of all places. If you really want to go to that event, or even just see your friend, then go for it. It's not like an invitation is legally binding, anyway."

Weird way to end it, but she wasn't wrong. Ophelia hummed. Well, the Norwegian girl said so herself—dumb little sisters did this stuff to get a family member to attend. So if Ophelia was invited, then Meri _certainly_ was as well. Hell, Clotilde was probably using Ophelia as a bribe to get Meri to attend.

Still… There'd be some big names at the wedding. Big enough to attract her family's attention. She was pretty sure the guy Clotilde was marrying was chummy with a lot of pureblood families, too. Seeing another Ashcourt at this shindig… The odds weren't looking good for her.

Ophelia shuddered. She quickly sat upright and let out a long, tired breath. To her right, Rolf was just about finished with his contemplation.

"They're right," he said. "Both about doing what you want _and_ why she'd invite you. I would say… sister wants to mend her relationship with friend but wants her to be comfortable. Why else would she set aside her mutual hatred of you and invite you?"

"A fair point." Ophelia wiggled her toes. The girls did a nice job. It wasn't noticeable at first glance, but the glittery silver polish made her feel a little more fancy than usual. Like she was embracing the Florida chic. "Think I might go, then."

Rolf scoffed. "That's lovely. Do you have money for a last-minute flight?"

She did not. But since when did money stop her?

Ophelia smirked at him and, with her toes spread out to keep from smudging the polish, and waddled over to her bunk to pack her things. "Capitalism stands no chance against a bastard like me."

Rolf threw the cushion back at her, knocking her face-first into her bunk with a squawk. Were it not for the polish drying on her toes, she would have strangled him.

* * *

"_And finally…"_

_They looked each other in the eye as they snapped their wands in half. A hollow sound, and then they were snapping the halves once more. They dropped the pieces into their mortars and ground them to a fine powder._

"_The wand of the potion maker, soaked in a pint of their blood for three days."_

* * *

**That's it for this monster of a chapter! Your thots and onions? Also, I wanna say THANK YOU SO MUCH! The feedback from the last chapter was... wow! I was really scared for some reason that I'd mess something up or that the chapter of daily life would be too boring, but I'm glad you guys enjoyed it! If there's any mistakes from here on out, don't be afraid to let me know too!**

**Aahhh, you guys are amazing! I'll see you with the next update!**


	4. IV

**Hello everyone! I hope you all had a lovely new year's since the last update! This isn't a monster chapter like last time, don't worry - but I did make sure to keep it at a good length for the time between updates! Like last time there was some music that helped with writing, but out of all the songs I'd say that the Chainsmokers' new song "The Reaper" pulled most of the musical weight for this chapter!**

* * *

**IV.**

* * *

_August 12, 2019_

Walter was barely able to stay on his feet as Meri darted about the apartment. His eyes were struggling to stay open, his towering form teetering back and forth like a skyscraper rocked by an earthquake. Every so often Minthe would crawl under the blanket he'd draped over his shoulders, only to jump back out and yowl in its attempts to wake him fully.

Rising before the sun was never a talent of Walter's. It was never one of Meri's, either, but she'd made extra certain to tell Minthe to wake her no matter what if her phone began to chirp. She had a bad habit of sleeping through the alarms, but no one could ignore Minthe. Not even poor Walter, caught in the crossfire and dragging his feet in an attempt to see his fiance off and ease her anxieties.

Every so often Meri would pause, tell Walter he could go back to bed soon, and Walter let out a happy grunt each time. She double checked her suitcase, triple checked, and finally flicked her hands about in an attempt to shake away the nerves. It was just for a little while, and there was a whole menagerie of magical beasts waiting to give her cuddle therapy before she came home. She could do this.

Meri fished around in the wardrobe for a few seconds before finally spotting the last item on her checklist—her broom, covered in a thin layer of dust from underuse and looking absolutely miserable in the dark corner on its own.

"Oh," she cooed, almost pitying the broom. "You poor thing. I'll make sure to give you plenty of time in the air, ol' reliable."

She picked up her suitcase and hobbled over to Walter. Her hands were full, but she still did her best to hug him and he in turn tried to wrap her under the blanket with him. Walter was still half-asleep, but at least now he knew it was just going to be him and Minthe for a while.

"I'm proud of you," he mumbled tiredly into her hair. Meri squeezed him back, unwilling to argue at this hour in the morning. "Gonna knock 'em dead."

"That's the bride's job, not mine," she reminded him. Walter grunted, the most indignant she'd heard him when referring to Clotilde, and wisely kept his mouth shut. A sleep-deprived Walter was a Walter without a politeness filter—not that Meri minded. Clotilde wasn't exactly someone you'd be proud to introduce to the family.

Meri ambled over to the fireplace and threw some of the Floo powder into it. As the green flames erupted, Meri sucked in a deep, steeling breath and told herself she was going to survive a simple wedding. Even if it was _Clotilde's_ wedding. She stepped into the fire, broom and suitcase gripped with white-knuckled hands, and she yelled at the top of her voice, "Damian Valie's menagerie!"

She never liked looking when she took the Floo Network. She always thought it would be similar to taking a Portkey or Apparating, too sickness-inducing for her tastes. It certainly stank of cinders enough to make her think so. But Meri always knew when she'd arrived at her destination—the fresh air would hit her, just for a second, and the smell of smoke would come back stronger. Not as unbearable as the alternative, but the first time Meri had travelled using the Floo she'd been hacking up her lungs for the better part of an hour. Now she knew how to time it, what to look for, before she could breathe in again.

Her eyes slowly, carefully opened. The room Damian kept his fireplace in was much less a room and more like a great expanse; a section of woodland where the isolated brick structure resided. A small vase atop its mantle was where he kept his Floo powder, but other than that he very rarely decorated it. That was left to the fairies who would wander into his menagerie, who often admired themselves in the cracked mirror hanging above the mantle. Meri stepped out from the fireplace, dusted herself off a little. When she took a quick look around the fireplace, she could see the faintest of lights from the fireflies among the trees.

One of the fairies sleeping on the mantle glared at her, and Meri quickly bowed her head at it. "Sorry, I know it's too early for visitors," she mumbled. The fairy made hissing sounds at her. "You look very lovely, by the way."

That seemed to make the fairy simmer down a little. Meri held her breath as it made itself comfortable again, and soon enough she was able to mount her broom without waking it a second time. The other fairies must have been heavier sleepers, she thought. Meri balanced her suitcase on her broom with her weight and awkwardly pressed onwards; at a snail's pace, she weaved her way through the trees and did her best to remember the direction from the fireplace to Damian's shack at the centre of the menagerie.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd come here, just knew that her fondest memories had been made in this menagerie. Nights spent sneaking to the Slytherin common room, fleeing through one of his cloaks to the entrance through the shack. It was like a home away from home for Meri—the menagerie was located in a lovely stretch of forest in North Ireland, though how far the menagerie was from Sinister Manor she never knew. The Valies never had to worry about people stumbling upon it, either. It was just how they worked—spells upon spells, expansion charms upon expansion charms. Beyond the boundaries of the menagerie, its vast space was a mere acre and a half to the eyes of muggles and unaware wizards alike.

That was part of why she loved this place, she told herself as her broom glided over a small creek. Just a little further down the creek would turn into a small waterfall, pooling into a spring where Damian kept some of the smaller aquatic beasts. She didn't go near that spring as often as she used to, at least not after her third year. Experiencing firsthand the effects of a Mackled Malaclaw bite was not the greatest of times.

The firefly trail tapered out the closer she got to the shack. It was fine, she told herself; her wand was tucked in her pocket in case she needed any light, but the slow crawl she moved at had given the sun enough time to peek over the horizon. It wasn't a strong glow, but just enough to cast a thin veil of orange against the tops of the trees.

She wasn't far from the menagerie gates—or Scruffy.

Damian had warned her about the new addition. A few years back, long since they'd graduated but not long since Meri could recall being buried under a pile of Zouwu last, Damian had been tasked with the rescue of an abused hippogriff. The poor thing had been so malnourished, he'd told her when he'd sent his owl, and instead of the usual pride its kind had there was only fear. But just last week he'd sent another owl, remembering at the last minute to update her on the creature's progress. Scruffy was bigger, healthier—prouder, as it should be. And Scruffy, with its newfound purpose and affections towards Damian, made short work of becoming the guard for Damian's hidden menagerie.

She'd been dying to see the hippogriff once she'd been reminded of it. They'd covered the caring of hippogriffs at Hogwarts, sure, and some of their seniors went on to breed them. She'd heard a Ravenclaw alumnus even won some contest last year with his own batch. But there was always something different about seeing the creatures in the menagerie, less of a danger to it. School would teach caution and rules, but the menagerie encouraged affection and patience.

The thick expanse of trees slowly thinned out, and more light guided her path. Meri adjusted her grip on her suitcase and pressed onwards. She squinted at the structure in the distance, lowered her broom just a tad to easily dismount at a moment's notice. With the morning light starting to break through, it was only a matter of time before the menagerie was bustling with life and chores that needed doing.

A mass of grey began moving about in the distance, just a little closer to Meri than the building was. That had to have been Scruffy. She let herself drift for a few more yards before finally slowing to a halt, where a convenient stone path leading straight ahead greeted her like a red carpet. It was as good a sign as any that she needed to move slower from this point onwards. Even if the menagerie practiced more relaxed care for creatures, a first encounter with a hippogriff still needed the rules school established.

It was a good thing she did. She was barely halfway from the start of the path to the gates of the menagerie when Scruffy noticed her, and it went on the defensive faster than she could count. Meri sucked in a deep, steeling breath, and continued forward.

Scruffy was gorgeous in person. Even as she maintained eye contact, she could see the dapple grey coat its feathers took on. Long, elegant strides were made back and forth in front of the gate, even as Scruffy looked her up and down over and over again. Meri was a mere ten metres away from it when it stopped, and she too halted her own movements. She set her suitcase to one side, haphazardly leaned her broom against it. As painful as it was to strain her eyes to keep looking up, she bent slowly into a bow and waited.

Scruffy was gorgeous, for sure; big and strong, sleek and refined. The way its eagle claws pawed at the dirt as it considered her, how its wings shuddered as it tried to determine how worthy she was. She wondered at times if hippogriffs flared their wings like some birds did when they wanted to intimidate, but she'd never thought to ask until after she'd found out Damian had one. She'd have to ask him as soon as she got inside.

There was a short grunt from Scruffy. Its feet thrummed against the ground, and then the stone path. Meri held her breath as she watched it approach her, faced her head-on. Her heart soared as its head began to dip, as its front legs began to fold in half to accommodate its position. A bow.

She rose, still maintaining her dragging pace, and it was a challenge to hold back the giddiness in her smile as she outstretched her hand. Meri hadn't been the one selected to demonstrate during the class that covered the creatures. Neither had Damian, though him being excluded from demonstrations was more to make a point. It was hard to learn proper etiquette with some creatures when the person demonstrating possessed Animaspeech. Any creature that Damian so much as looked at automatically considered him kin, and the dangers of mistakes being made would never be learned properly. But the student who _had_ demonstrated hippogriff etiquette, she'd described it as exhilarating. Like a whole new door had just been opened, and the hippogriff held it open as you stumbled through. And the downy feathers near its beak, she'd gushed about them for days.

Meri had wondered just how different it had been to holding one of her friends while in Animagus form. She'd been impressed, for sure, but the bored heiress of yore hadn't dwelled on it for long after. As an adult who could reminisce? Could look on those days and _wish_? She could feel right down to her bones just how different this was, and Scruffy hadn't even touched her hand yet.

But soon enough it did. The _click-clack_ of its back legs, the _scritch-scritch_ of its front; it was like a mantra that she followed eagerly, counting down the steps it took to reach her. And when its head nuzzled the palm of her hand, pressed against it with the barest hints of affection, all she could think was that the girl who'd demonstrated was _right_.

Meri breathed out a laugh. Scruffy cooed at her, let her pet its head.

"Look at you," she whispered. It didn't get any better than this. "Damian's taken such good care of you, hasn't he?"

Scruffy cooed in agreement. It pulled away from her hand, circled her much like Minthe would when she returned home, and it was as good a sign as any that she was welcome inside the menagerie.

Scruffy didn't follow her inside once she passed through the gate. It simply circled back to its original spot, plopped down and let out a content huff. Meri made certain not to make too much noise as she wandered through the small garden between her and the shack, and she didn't even bother knocking once she approached the large wooden door at its front. Damian always left it unlocked, mostly because the likelihood of someone getting past _Scruffy_ first with the intention of robbing him, or worse, was pretty damn slim.

"Dami!" she called. The shack was dark, save for the few glowbugs he kept in small habitats on various shelves. Dark enough for Meri to trip over a pile of books as soon as she took a step forward. She tumbled to the floor, crashed into a stack of papers that _clearly _needed to be stapled together.

Damian clearly hadn't used the front door in a while.

"Dami!" she called again. She dusted herself off and set out to pick up every book she found on her way into the house. If she had a path, she had something to work with. "I'm here!"

Thumping from above. Meri rolled her eyes until she was forced to stare at the ceiling. She followed the thumping, pausing every time it became louder—like Damian had fallen over something in his haste—and finally rested her gaze on the spiral staircase near the kitchen.

"Late night, then," she muttered to herself. Not that she could blame him. If he wasn't anxious over making sure his beasts would survive a day without him, then he'd probably be anxious about how fast he'd need to do damage control if Clotilde and Meri went for each other's throats. Ophelia, too, if she'd been invited.

He came tumbling down the stairs, his hair an absolute mess and with still sleeping pixies tangled in it. Damian had clearly tried to throw on a kimono robe on his way down, but one half of it was still dragging along the ground even as he tied it in a knot. He couldn't even find her at first as he stared, wide-eyed, into the ground floor of his shack. But he did, and Meri all but gave him a sarcastic slow clap once he did.

"You found me," she said dryly. Damian visibly relaxed and trudged the rest of the way down the stairs. The pixies in his hair only began to stir once he entered the kitchen and flicked the switch for his kettle.

"Bloody sun isn't even up," he grumbled blearily. "What time is it?"

"Little after five," Meri told him. She navigated her way through the rest of the books on the floor and finally, after abandoning her suitcase and broom to the front door, settled down onto a stool in the kitchen. "Have a cuppa. I'll start feeding the babies."

Damian tried to fight back a yawn. "No, I'll—" He cut himself off and scrunched up his nose. Big yawn for a big guy, she mused. "I'll help. They won't be awake yet."

He pulled out two mugs, set them down, and Meri watched with amusement as the pixies set out to create mischief as soon as possible. He turned his back to them for just a few seconds, and already they were unscrewing the lid of the saltshaker and upending the contents into the mug.

"Remember, no sugar for me, Dami," she sang. The pixies looked at her, and she gave them a wink. Who was she to deny them their fun?

"Right," Damian mumbled, nodding like he'd actually forgotten. As he turned back around, tea leaves in hand, his pixies were caught in the act. They dropped the saltshaker entirely into his mug and let out shrill cackles. "I'll make it look like a bloody accident. Don't think I won't."

The pixies all but fled out the window as soon as he opened it, and it was only a matter of time before the rest of the menagerie was awake thanks to their pranks.

* * *

Damian sniffed as he looked himself over in the mirror. Suit fitted just fine, his hair wasn't a bird's nest anymore. All that was bothering him was the time of day.

"Who has a wedding at ten in the morning?" he called back to Meri. She was behind the folding screen in the corner of the room, her own dress hanging over the top as it waited for her. "Wouldn't it feel more wholesome at night? With all those little lights and everything?"

"Walter and I were considering that," she noted. Damian let out an interested hum. He was pretty sure he'd like Meri and Walter's wedding more than he would like _Thotilde's_. "He said something in a tent might be nice, and I'm starting to agree. Anything indoors would be too suffocating."

"And leaving whether or not a bird poops on you up to fate isn't on the table," Damian agreed. "He's got good ideas."

He watched as the dress was quickly pulled over the screen. Just a flash of navy blue disappearing into the abyss, though he was sure the abyss would be kind to it. Meri wasn't about to waste her hard-earned muggle money by ripping it before she even got to the wedding.

"When were you guys thinking?" he went on. Damian fixed his collar and moved back to his dresser. Where were those gloves again?

"Spring," Meri grunted. She must've elbowed the screen, because a very loud _thunk_ sounded after. "_Fuck_," she added, almost to herself.

"That generally happens in Spring, yes."

"If you think I have enough shame to not come out in my undies and hit you, you're mistaken."

"It wouldn't be the first time." That had been an awkward preparation for the Yule Ball. At least neither of them got in trouble for it—Fee had sworn to secrecy, and also enjoyed the sight of Damian being pummelled with high heels too much to give up a second viewing.

Meri was quiet for a moment. Damian opened his drawers, pursed his lips. Where on earth did he put them? They were his good gloves, it wasn't like he'd just misplaced them somewhere. He opened another drawer, groaned a little louder. Where in the fresh _hell_—

A drawer behind him burst open. Damian whirled around, stunned, as he watched a small shape emerge from the drawer. A small shape _wearing his gloves_.

"Oh," he squeaked. The snidget waddled about, shrieking in a panic as it tried to shake the gloves off. Damian could only shake his head at it as he stalked over. "You shouldn't have burrowed into it, then!"

The snidget shrieked again, this time indignant. It had wanted a warm place to sleep, couldn't he see that? It was Damian's fault for shutting the drawer last night and locking it in there!

"Drawers aren't beds," he scolded. As soon as the gloves were off the rotund bird's body, it shot up into the air and flew towards the stairs. "Honestly."

"You shouldn't have locked it in there," Meri joked. Damian looked at the screen, brows furrowed and nose scrunched up to high heavens. He knew she was joking, but sometimes the accuracy her jokes had to the creatures' own complaints were too concerning.

Must've been a bird thing. Avians always did take to the trio after they'd become Animagi.

He slipped on his gloves—pearly white, made from Antipodean Wyvern scales—and returned to the mirror to admire himself. They matched the blood red tux rather nicely, if he did say so himself, and they helped the white, waxed dress shoes pop just that little bit more. The mulberry dress shirt beneath his blazer blended nicely with the red, creating a sort of warm colour palette.

If it weren't a crime to outshine the bride, he'd dare say he'd make Clotilde's wedding a Damian-centric event with this getup.

"I should've bleached my hair," Meri groaned. "She's going to flip when she sees it all…"

She stumbled out from behind the screen, her heels gripped in one hand. Damian began pushing his hair back to tie it into a bun as he watched her flop onto his bed.

"Making her angry is a good reason to keep it like that," he reasoned. Meri kicked her legs up and down and screamed into his blankets. "Alright. Sheesh. We can always use the Colour Changing Charm on it. I don't think blond will look as nice with your dress as what you have now, though."

She whined and lifted her head. "You think so?" she mumbled.

With his hair secured, Damian tutted at her and grabbed a brush. "I know so. Who helped you pick your dress for the Yule Ball, again?"

"I never cared back then," Meri tried to argue. He raised a brow at her, and she slowly relented. "Alright. If you think it works better as is, I'll leave it."

"Not to mention," he said, "muggle dyes must be expensive. Much less getting a—what'd you say the thing with the neon blue was?"

"Ombre."

"Yes. I imagine you had to give up fancy dinners for a month after getting the ombre."

She squinted at him. "How much do you think me and Wally make in the store?"

Damian wasn't an expert on muggle money. She knew this. He barely knew how to use the phone she'd bought him for his birthday one year—now it just collected dust on his desk, maybe occasionally used as an alarm if he couldn't find a clock.

He waved her to come over. Sure, Clotilde would probably hate the black dye—more so the fact that Meri had gone on to ombre the hair into neon blue. But Meri had been excited the first time she'd dyed her hair, said it was her first taste of actually _living_ like a muggle. If she changed it back to blond just for the wedding, it'd be like she was hiding her new lifestyle in a bout of shame.

Damian hated seeing his friend feel ashamed. He hated seeing her ashamed for being _happy_.

"We match better if you keep it, too," he joked. He was half-right. Meri's blues complimented the reds that Damian wore rather nicely.

She made her way over to him. He stood her in front of the mirror, let her take in her appearance as he moved back to his dresser. He had a few spare pins he'd use when he couldn't be bothered brushing his hair, and the style he had in mind would definitely call for them.

All it took was a bit of maneuvering, and soon Meri's long hair was draped over one shoulder; the pins held it in place at the back, blended in smoothly with the darker tones of her hair. With the neon blue more towards the front of her dress, it seemed to fit with the dress's own darker blue. Maybe for the broom ride over she'd have to wear Damian's blazer—choosing an open-back dress was daring, even for Meri, he noted—but otherwise, all she had left to do was put on her heels.

As soon as the strappy, three-inch pumps were on, Meri actually smiled at herself in the mirror. A taffeta dress with long, lace sleeves that helped cover the birthmark on her shoulder, with a skirt that wasn't too long or too short; just at the knees, a preference Damian had been made annoyingly aware of when he'd helped her with the Yule Ball.

"Oh," Meri squeaked. She scuttled over awkwardly in her heels to the screen again. Damian tried not to laugh. She really couldn't even jog in anything higher than an inch, huh? When she emerged from the screen, she now had a pair of blue earrings fastened on each ear. "I almost forgot. Florence got these for my birthday, and I thought they'd look nice."

"He's got good taste. I'm sure he'll be happy to see you flaunting them at the wedding."

Meri gave him a half-smile. "One can hope."

"None of that, madam. If there's one thing you can count on, it's Flo being unequivocally delighted by your presence." He clapped his hands together and walked backwards towards the stairs. "Now hop to it. I want to get there early enough to miss the line for the bar."

* * *

"Already crowded, huh?"

Their feet touched the ground softly, their brooms now pliant in their grips. Meri shrugged off Damian's blazer and helped him put it back on, going so far as to fix his collar again and give him the all-clear. They'd hoped arriving early would mean some time to mentally prepare, but it seemed everyone else had the same idea. There had to be at least three dozen people just outside rattling off their names to the house elf manning the reception, and countless more beyond the arbor trellis gate. The bride wasn't due to walk down the aisle for another half an hour, yet everyone was ready for the display now.

The line moved rather quickly. Meri even noted the arrival of more guests behind them, some from influential families she recognised in her youth. She tried to steel her nerves, remind herself that _she_ wasn't the one in the spotlight today. But the fear of being judged for every little thing, being the head of her family, was too deeply ingrained to simply reason away.

A name was announced ahead of them, and Damian elbowed Meri excitedly. "D'you hear that?"

"What?"

"The guest they just let through. You know how Hogwarts could never hold a DADA professor for very long?" Damian leaned around the line and pointed ahead. Meri could vaguely see the long braid the person in question sported. Beside them, a tall, blond man in a suit as dazzling as Damian's was guiding them along to a chair. There were children with them, Meri soon realised. "That's him. What's his name? Something Hemingway-Wormwood. He's held the position for a while now."

"Which one is he?"

Damian scoffed. "I'd be complaining if he was the showboat. His husband really thinks he can show me up, eh?"

Meri squinted up at him. "Have you even met them?" she asked.

"No. But I refuse to be outdone either way."

Now it was Meri's turn to elbow him. She kindly reminded him that this was her _sister's_ wedding, and that Damian's usual passive aggressive competitiveness with guests would not be tolerated like it would at her own wedding. Damian pouted as they continued onwards.

Still, it was interesting to hear. True, Defense Against the Dark Arts never had a teacher for very long—but not because of those books and their silly little plot points. There was never a curse, just a demand that not everyone could keep up with. No one lasted more than a year, so if this Hemingway-Wormwood guy was still going at it, surely he had to have some knack for it.

She was glad. Meri loved the class more than others, but she never had the aptitude to teach it. The fact that someone held on to the position for more than a year was a relief. It meant the kids were in good hands, with a familiar professor.

Finally it was their turn. Meri gulped as the house elf asked them in a gravelly voice, "Names?"

"Damian Valie," Damian said. The house elf ticked somewhere on the scroll with his large quill. "And with me is Meridian Sinister."

"Ah," the elf started. Meri pursed her lips and tried not to groan. Here came the sardonic welcome back to the wizarding world. "The groom has been waiting for you. Master Valie, Mistress Sinister, please follow the path until you reach the altar—the tent to the left is where Master Ainsworth is preparing."

Oh. That was unexpected.

Damian practically dragged the stunned Meri through the gate and down the rows of seats. The sheer number of places for guests may as well have called for a chapel instead of an open space. Everything looked pretty low key otherwise; aside from the arbor trellis gate, there wasn't much else in the way of decoration aside from the red carpet atop the grass and the stone altar where the groomsmen were waiting. Florence was absent, she noted—probably helping the groom prepare in his tent—but it seemed like everyone else was there. If not for the white flowers in vases and the wedding arch near the groomsmen, this wouldn't be taken for a wedding at first glance.

The groom's tent was small, but once Damian called through the opening that he and Meri were coming in, it was apparent an expansion charm had been used on the interior. Mirrors hung from various points of the ceiling, clothes were strewn about on the lounges within. Just beyond the screen in the middle of the room, Meri could see movement and hear the telltale signs of anxiety.

"There's our groom," she muttered.

"Knock, knock!" Damian called. There was a muffled shout of surprise, and then two men were darting out from behind the screen. One held in his hands four bottles of cologne while the other was fumbling to attach the rose brooch to his jacket.

"Meri!" Florence called. He set down the colognes as carefully as possible, and then he was hurrying over to greet the guests. Though his dress shirt was black, and his tie white with black and red pinstripes, everything else he wore ever so slowly cycled through the colour wheel. She stared at him for a moment, watched the way his tuxedo jacket went from a soft lavender hue to a pastel pink, a downward sweep ending at the long coat tails behind him. His pants soon followed suit, matching for a few seconds before the blazer changed again. "You came!"

"You made a great case about attending," she joked.

"Ah, and Damian! I haven't seen you in forever. How're the beasts?"

"Beastly," Damian told him. "Had a few new additions to the rehabilitation area—the cutest little Peruvian Vipertooths I've ever seen."

The groom finally spoke up, full-on sputtering in surprise, "Aren't those one of the—"

"Most adorable little things ever?" Damian all but gushed.

Meri coughed. "He means the classification, Dami."

"What? XXXXX? _Please_."

"Wait, no, I get it now." The groom laughed, almost embarrassed. "Valie, right?"

Damian winked at him.

The groom finally stood by them, his brooch firmly in place now that he was a little more relaxed. "And you're Meridian. It's nice to meet my future sister-in-law in person," he said to Meri.

"Sorry for being off the radar."

"No need, we all have our reasons. And it gave Clo some time to think on how you guys left each other last, I'd say."

So she really had thought on the things she and Meri had said to each other. Meri wasn't sure why, but it made the pit in her stomach grow. If she wasn't going to make Clotilde angry or ashamed, then what else was there to feel but guilt? She'd practically abandoned her sister the moment she graduated from Hogwarts, and on top of that Clotilde had been forced to reevaluate how the two had treated each other. It was what Meri had wanted, but she hadn't wanted to just _dump_ that on Clotilde.

She just hadn't planned on running with her tail between her legs and a ring on her finger.

Meri cleared her throat and smoothed out the skirt of her dress.

"You wanted to see me, ah...?" she tried.

"Leopold," he reminded her. She'd only seen the name on the invitation, and aside from the date and location she hadn't committed much else to memory. "And I just wanted to… I guess get your blessing? It's late—so _very_ late, I know—but I don't want to disrespect you by not asking at all."

She blinked at him. She looked up at Damian. He shrugged and shook his head, eyes wide, back at her.

"Um." She shrugged and mirrored Damian's expression. She'd expected something more drastic than… whatever asking for blessing counted as. "Sure?"

Any remaining anxiety on Leopold's face vanished in that instant. He beamed at Meri, clearly overjoyed at being accepted into her family, but Meri just couldn't see _why_. The Sinisters were just herself and Clotilde, and it was pretty obvious Meri was lax with her authority. All Leopold would be getting from embracing her family was a history of tricksters and an empty manor filled with junk she was never willing to give away.

But to each their own, she supposed.

"Thank you so much, Meridian," Leopold sniffed. Florence moved back to the colognes he'd set down and began sorting through them. "Now, with that out of the way—Mr. Valie?"

Damian raised a brow. "Yes?"

"Are those real basilisk fangs you're wearing as earrings?"

Meri tried not to laugh. Oh, what a poor question to ask. At least Leopold had time before he was due to greet his wife at the altar.

Damian took a seat on a nearby lounge and, with a smug expression, launched into the painstaking process he'd taken to preserve not just the fangs and their size, but also their venom. It was a story Walter had spent fifteen minutes listening to the first time he'd asked, and now even mentioning the basilisk fang earrings in the apartment was taboo.

"The venom is still in them—both of them, as a matter of fact—and the teeth are very sharp, but you needn't worry! I sleep with them on half the time and the materials used to convert them into earrings all played an integral part in—"

Meri announced she was going to grab herself and Damian a drink before the wedding started, and hurried out of the tent before he could describe his routine checks of his basilisks' dental hygiene.

* * *

**The amount of times I wish Damian's menagerie was real makes me jealous of him. But anyway! Wedding next chapter! Thots and onions so far?**


	5. V

**Hee Hoo It's Wedding Time**

**See also the bottom of the chapter for some extra news**

* * *

**V.**

* * *

_August 12th, 2019_

They'd spared no expense for their wedding.

Of course they didn't, Keira told herself, because it would make the day feel that little bit less special if they had. It would've been ludicrous if two very wealthy purebloods didn't go all out, especially after the bill they'd racked up for the dress alone. She wasn't sure where she was going with the idea that they could've skimmed over a few things, like decorations and location. But she knew what she'd _meant_ with the kneejerk remark.

The wedding was like something out of a fairy tale.

Of all the clothing she'd tailored, of all the events she'd attended, not a single one came close to the sheer otherworldliness of this single wedding. The weather was perfect, not too breezy and not too sunny; the guests were pleasant, not a single sneer aimed at people even Keira knew were muggleborns. Rows of chairs, decorated subtly enough that she almost didn't notice the white roses wound around their legs, filled ever so slowly with guests and family members. To one side, the groom's family—the Ainsworths—lined the front row and spoke nothing but praises for the couple. The bride's family, a single sister, took the seat closest to the aisle while special guests—guests like Keira, somehow—filled the remaining seats.

Keira would hear stories about the Sinister family following the bride's engagement being made public. Hear how they caused trouble, yet not enough trouble that warranted trips to Azkaban. How their sheer need for childish tricks and controlled chaos made them so reckless that their life expectancies were always cut short. But with the interactions she'd had with the bride, how simple and cheerful she was, she'd wondered if there were exceptions. Black sheep among the family every generation. Now that she sat beside the sister, who looked so _normal_ compared to all the other pureblood guests, she was beginning to wonder if the stories were just that—stories.

Because, based on what Keira heard, a Sinister would _not_ say, "Damian, put Fernando back!" upon discovering their friend had snuck a baby dragon to the wedding in their coat.

She did her best to keep her eyes forward. It felt awkward enough sitting in the front row with the sister of the bride, where family was supposed to be, but now attention was bound to land on her once word got out that a guest had snuck a baby dragon _into the second row_. She'd heard of people obsessed with the creatures and wishing they were dragons, but Keira was certain they didn't count as plus ones on the invitation.

The wedding itself would be over soon, she told herself. The majority of the proceedings consisted of the reception and lunch. She'd be able to have a peek at the dress on the bride, have a few tall glasses of wine, and then leave. Easy.

Easy…

Keira sniffed and kept her eyes forward. Why did they have to invite her? All she did was make the dress, and she'd been so on edge when Leopold reminded her—and Deacon—of her old reputation at Hogwarts. She could've declined and let some stuffy friend of theirs take her spot. But she wanted to get drunk and she was broke enough to be desperate. Now here she was, right in the splash zone and surrounded by people who probably remembered the dumb mistake she'd made way back when.

They probably remembered her as Snape's little teacher's pet, too.

No, none of that. She just had to think about this differently. A wedding was just a glorified party, right? And Keira was good at partying. A wedding just… needed a little more restraint. Keira could show restraint. She could keep herself from drinking from a keg—especially since there were no kegs here, as far as she knew—and throwing up on someone's expensive dress. She could do that.

God, she was gonna throw up regardless of how much booze was in her system. What the hell was she doing? She was better suited for a pub downtown and a round of beer, not a high class, bougie gathering with fancy wines she could never remember the name of!

A throat cleared beside her, and Keira felt her stomach lurch. She almost gagged, convinced she really would throw up, but kept it down and looked quickly to the sister of the bride. The smile she gave was probably as strained as she felt it was.

"You're squeezing your finger pretty hard there," the sister said nervously. She pointed at Keira's hands, and Keira quickly parted them without so much as looking.

"D—Didn't notice," Keira stammered. "Don't feel much in the finger anymore."

"Oh." The sister looked away for a moment. Keira thought that was the end of it, that she'd bothered the woman with her nerves, but soon enough those slate grey eyes were back on her. "Are you… a friend of Clotilde's?"

Keira shook her head vigorously. "Oh, no, no—I just—" God, why were words so hard? _She_ _needed something to loosen her up_. "I made the dress. The wedding dress. For the wedding."

The man in the row behind them with the baby dragon snorted to himself, and from behind his hand Keira heard him mutter something about poison for Kuzco. The sister must have too, because she was going red in the face and trying not to laugh—but clearly not succeeding.

"Sorry, not laughing at you—Dami, behave!" She fought her giggles as she scolded the man. "I can't wait to see the dress. You must be really good."

Well, she wasn't one to toot her own horn, but… "It's my most… delicate work so far, I'll say. Perfect for her."

"She always was delicate," the sister chuckled to herself. A hand was pushed in Keira's direction, followed by the greeting of, "I'm Meri, her sister. Thank you for your work."

"Keira." She shook Meri's hand reluctantly. Meri seemed nice, friendly. "And thanks. I like your hair."

The man behind them burst through the chairs all of a sudden. "Can you believe she wanted to change it right before we left for the wedding?"

"_Damian_!"

"Damian Valie, best friend of the sister of the bride while simultaneously worst enemy of the bride. You seem fashion-forward, Keira—would platinum blond look better than what she has now—"

A trumpet sounded, and all three of them slammed themselves back into their seats, postures rigid and eyes to the front. Leopold had come out at some point during the mess of an introduction, and his groomsmen were all lined up behind him. Standing out among them was the best man, whose suit was apparently already handled when Keira had been given the order. It looked nice enough, but she knew for a fact she could've made better.

The trumpets continued to blare, accompanied by violins and other stringed instruments, and then everyone was turning in their seats to watch the bridesmaids start the celebration. Keira looked them all up and down, admired the handiwork she'd put into sewing all those gems to their skirts like stars. Contrary to most weddings, Clotilde and Leopold had insisted on darker clothes for their bridal party—more to make their wealth stand out as the light hit the topazes that lined their skirts and sleeves.

Keira had compromised, making the dresses a darker purple that faded to black towards the ends. It still had the same effect as what the couple had envisioned, but it also resembled twilight much more than their original designs had. They walked the aisle in pairs, lining up adjacent to the groomsmen once they reached the altar. Keira dared a glance at Meri, wondering if she was just as impressed as everyone else, and there was no doubt that she was enamoured by the designs.

"I made theirs too," Keira whispered. Meri looked at her through her peripherals with raised brows.

"They're gorgeous," she whispered back, excitement clear in her tone. Keira beamed. She already knew they looked gorgeous, but hearing someone else say it always made her feel a little better about her masterpieces.

And then the tune took a more familiar turn, obviously leading into the bridal march Keira wasn't expecting to hear at a witch's wedding. All of the guests turned back around, gazes glued to the back of the open venue, and there they were—the bride and maid of honour, walking down the aisle at a crawl with their arms linked.

The tulle gown was by far Keira's magnum opus. Floor length, large enough to be classed as a ballgown, and decorated with so many diamonds that Clotilde almost glimmered as the light hit her. It wouldn't be out of the question to compare the bride to a cloud in the sky, lined with silver as the sun shone behind it and cast a halo around the sky. And when Clotilde caught sight of Meri, right in the front row, she got impossibly brighter as her smile stretched from cheek to cheek, no longer a demure, reserved expression befitting of wizarding nobility.

Keira was extra proud when, upon glancing at Meri herself, she caught tears beginning to form in her stunned eyes. Meri held her hand to her heart, smiled as best as she could, and every so often dabbed at her eyes with a hanky Keira hadn't even noticed being produced.

Bride and groom were united at the altar, Leopold's gloved hands circling Clotilde's own bare as she held the bouquet of lotus flowers between them. Most brides went for something like roses, daisies, tulips, but both bride and groom had insisted on lotuses. It felt "more their style", more fitting for their wedding. Keira wasn't exactly sure why, and even when looking up the meaning of the flowers in old books they just… came up with the same meaning as most conventional wedding flora. Purity, chastity, all that jazz. But she wasn't the wedding planner, just the designer, and she kept her mouth shut on anything that wasn't to do with the dress.

The priest went on his usual spiel, said his dearly beloveds and holy matrimonies. The crowd was silent the whole time, only the occasional sniffles and happy sobs breaking the silence; by the time the vows were exchanged, the sun was high in the sky and the breeze was pushing lightly at the guests and altar. Clotilde's veil fluttered, reflected light onto the front row thanks to all the little diamonds sewn into the thin fabric as well. When the priest asked if anyone objected, not a single soul dared speak out against the union.

"May this marriage stand strong in both this life, and the next," the priest announced. Keira raised a brow at the statement—she didn't recall anything like that in a conventional wedding _or_ wizarding wedding. Maybe it was a pureblood thing? "I now pronounce you man and wife; you may kiss the bride."

The applause was deafening. All the guests rose from their seats as Clotilde and Leopold embraced, at first giving each other short pecks before descending into something more. This felt way too personal to be present for, Keira thought. But she kept her smile on her face and she applauded along with everyone else, holding out for the moment she could run for the nearest wine bottle and guzzle it down in record time.

* * *

As disrespectful as it may have been, Ophelia had kept her hearing aid turned off the whole ceremony. She wasn't fond of Clotilde, nor could she bring herself to be fond of her Gryffindor boyfriend, and she wasn't permitted a front row seat like some of the other guests. So what more could she do but zone out and wait for the right time to applaud?

Now that they'd had their sloppy makeout and thrown the bouquet, though, the guests were free to roam and even enter the tent behind the altar—where lunch would be served, cake would be cut, and photos would be taken, most likely. Ophelia wasted no time weaving through the crowd, hiding her face from certain guests as she did so. This was a pureblood soiree, and there was no doubt that her cousins, her aunts, her uncles were invited. A guest list almost two hundred strong, there was no doubt about that much.

At least there was assigned seating, and merciful assignments at that. Ophelia was nowhere near someone she knew when she spotted her name—no one she didn't want to see her, at least. As soon as she slid into her chair and began fiddling with her name plate, she spotted two reservations to the right of her that she wasn't even sure had been invited. Ophelia had been hopeful for just Meri attending, but Damian as well? Together? All three of them together?

_Bird Squad reunion_, she thought with a smile. It'd been far too long since they'd chatted in person, let alone as birds annoying the crap out of their professors.

Ophelia spun her name plate between her hands and leaned back into her chair. She waited and waited, but once it became clear that her friends were probably held up by mingling and the like, she set the plate back down and huffed. Maybe she could wander a bit, see where they were. It would be hard to miss the only relative of the bride, right? Not to mention, Damian had his ways of standing out in a crowd.

She rose from her chair and tucked it back into the table. Ophelia chewed her lip and fixed her dress, glanced left and right. She saw fancy dresses to one side, regal witches and wizards to the other. Ophelia had been in a little bit of a rush getting to the wedding on time, so it was no surprise she looked the part of the last-minute arrival. But she felt sorely underdressed, with her empire dress and black boots—and there was no doubt her messenger bag would go unquestioned, especially when she'd had such a hard time letting that pesky house elf let her in with it.

Christ, she felt super out of place. She was getting too used to the backpacker lifestyle to be comfortable in a situation like this.

Ophelia beelined for a nearby bar, its long bench spanning almost one of the the western side of the tent. Several bartenders worked it, mixing drinks and uncorking wine and cleaning glasses as the orders filtered through. Ophelia sat down on one of the stools before it got even more crowded, and she was quick to order a rum and coke to calm her nerves. Time of day be damned, it was always five o'clock _somewhere_.

Another lady, dressed in a suit with floral designs and looking vaguely Victorian in style, stopped next to Ophelia and added, "Leave the rum bottle while you're at it."

The bartender raised a brow, but complied regardless. The drinks were free, after all, and they had plenty to spare. A bottle shared between two ladies wouldn't disrupt the party any.

And then the woman took the ornate rum bottle and pulled out the fancy seal, and she tipped her head back and brought the bottle to her lips. Ophelia stared, wide-eyed, as she swallowed all the rum in just six gulps—not once pausing for air—and set the bottle back on the bench with a straight face.

"Ta," she said to the bartender, and then she was off without another word.

Was Ophelia having a stroke? Did she just witness that? She looked back to the bartender, and his expression practically asked the same. They looked at each other and then the empty bottle, and before long the bartender was excusing himself to clean it and restock the rum.

She sipped at her rum and coke without any further thoughts on the matter. It would just vex her more and more, and she was anxious enough looking for her friends and laying low at once. The taste went down with a slight burn, but it was enough to wake her up a little more and put some warmth back into her joints. Ophelia nursed it for a few moments, and when the glass was half-empty she set it back down for a break.

Another guest squeezed beside her, shouting his order to a nearby bartender over the bustle. She almost snorted at the order—a Shirley Temple Black and a Jack Rose—but kept her composure long enough to go unnoticed. She just sat there and watched the bartender mix the drinks, and when she picked up her glass again the man seemed to finally notice her.

She wasn't expecting a stunned voice to say, "Ophelia?"

Had she the strength in her hands, she'd have crushed the glass in a split second. She knew it was her name, what everyone knew her as, but God did she hate it when people called her by her full name. Usually only family did that, and when they did it it was to degrade her or insult her or just _anything_ negative to do with her. But she kept her cool. Her liquid courage had barely kicked in yet, which meant she wouldn't be fighting anyone at the drop of a hat yet. Ophelia just set her glass back down, sighed, and cast a sidelong glance at the guest.

It was a mistake.

He'd aged, but it was hard to forget the last time they'd met outside of a formal, distant capacity. Ophelia's fight or flight instincts kicked in, but she was so hopelessly caught in the middle that all she could do was freeze. When she saw him, she felt fleeting pains—pains from being hit with _Expulso_, from being thrown back into a pen in the menagerie—and those pains soon opened the floodgates to older, more terrifying memories. Memories of family.

Ophelia looked away hurriedly and muttered, "Armand."

He hadn't been on her list of people she wanted to avoid, but to be fair she'd pushed that last interaction with him _way_ out of her mind after she'd recovered. She knew it was an accident, know he hadn't meant to hit her. But he'd meant to hit someone close to her, and that was enough to make him a frenemy on a good day.

Today, though, he was giving off some bastard vibes that Ophelia was certain she was just projecting onto him.

"H… How have you been?" Armand tried. She glanced at him—at his dashiki blouse, his tightly-fit pants and perfect shoes—and almost scoffed out loud at the sight of him. For all the pomp he'd put himself through for today, he couldn't even muster the courage to look her in the eye.

She didn't even want to deign him with a witty remark. He didn't deserve even that much right now.

Ophelia picked up her glass and slid out of her chair. She was going to walk away as fast as she could, head for outside the tent in case Meri and Damian were still at the altar, but Armand's pleading voice was faster than her legs.

"O—Fee, wait!"

He didn't leave the bar, looking nervously between the bartender finishing his first drink and at Ophelia. Ophelia heaved a sigh; she turned on her heel and levelled a stare at him, silently demanding he speak before she changed her mind and left him for dead.

Armand opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Under different, better circumstances, Ophelia would laugh. Here was this man, almost an entire foot taller than her, speechless under her glare because of something he'd done to her when they were kids. Armand hunted monsters for a living, didn't he? She kept correspondence with some old acquaintances every so often, and Armand's job had come up among the aurors. What the hell was it about Ophelia that had him so _terrified_?

Finally he seemed to find his voice. With his hands clenched by his sides, Armand looked her in the eye and said, voice broken, "I'm so sorry for what I did to you. It was—"

_And there was her liquid courage kicking in_. "Oh shut up."

Armand gawked at her. "P—Pardon?"

"I said, shut up. I've gotten over it already, and quite frankly it wasn't the worst thing to happen to me." _A half-truth. It was close to being the worst, that was for sure_. Ophelia swished her rum and coke and sucked in a deep breath. "Besides, I'm not the one you should be apologising to."

Armand steeled his expression. "No—"

"_Yes_." She took a swig and set the glass on the counter. A nearby bartender asked her if she wanted a refill, and Ophelia couldn't have said yes quicker. "Do you have _any_ idea what you did? Any at all?"

"I was defending myself," Armand growled. He tiptoed away from the bench, still hovering somewhat nearby to grab his drinks. "He wanted me to—to attend to those _abominations_—"

"Was what he did thoughtless? Sure. It wouldn't be Damian if it wasn't. But lashing out and attacking him and the basilisks?" The new bartender set down another drink, and Ophelia downed that in one swig as well. She was starting to see where the other woman got her vigor from with the whole bottle. "You dumb bitch."

"Fee, slow down there—"

"Oh piss off. _You_ don't get to tell me what to do after the stunt you pulled."

"I _apologised_—"

"_Not to Damian_."

Armand clenched his fists by his sides again. He pursed his lips, no longer able to look her in the eye. Her third drink was prepared, and Armand's first drink was set on the bar for collection. The second one was just starting when Ophelia felt the rum kick in properly. God, was she always a lightweight? Or was this stuff just strong?

"Do you know why Meri and I never took care of his basilisks with him?" she finally asked. If she was walking away from this conversation, she was going to do it with a bang—and maybe some incentive for this bastard to apologise to Damian. Armand gave her a sneer, but waited anyway for her to respond. "It's a Valie thing. They tend to save the care of their most precious beasts for people they want to declare their intentions to."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but she could pinpoint the exact moment they registered. She could see the expression turn from anger, slowly into horror and regret—and then, impossibly, disgust.

Armand turned away from Ophelia and waited patiently for his drinks. _He_ was done with this conversation, it seemed; Ophelia had no objections.

She just turned on her heel and called back over her shoulder, "Way to fuck that one up, casanova," as she left Armand at the bar.

* * *

Oh, there were… a lot of people drinking already. It was barely eleven and so far he'd run into half a dozen people whose breath smelled of some fruity concoction, filters all but gone as they began blurting out the first things that came to their heads. Florence hadn't accounted for the sheer amount of people who would run straight for the bar, but now he was watching it happen in quick succession as he stood by the snack table for the more peckish guests.

Being the best man was a job he was prepared for, though; he just had to keep his cool and this wedding wouldn't turn into a disaster. Leopold had worked extraordinarily hard on making everything perfect for Clotilde. Florence had already committed to upholding that perfection with Leopold by helping convince Meri to come.

He'd memorised all the names and faces of the guests in the weeks leading up to the wedding—no small feat, according to Leopold, who could barely remember some of his own guests' names. Florence was dedicated; he may have been raised by a witch and wizard, adopted into their family, but Florence was still undeniably muggle-born. He had to work twice as hard to make sure he didn't make Leopold look bad. It was the least he could do for the younger man's kindness.

So it was easy for him to place names to faces as they came by and greeted him. There were some who'd forgotten who he was entirely having pushed Florence Maleficent-Roufenge out of their minds once his teenage self had left their line of sight. (That hurt him somewhat, made him feel a tug at his heart that was all too familiar.) Others were stunned at the sight of him entirely, to the point of sharing the absurd expectations they'd had of him when they'd graduated.

"I honestly thought you'd died, given your circumstances," Deacon had told him weeks ago, when Florence introduced himself as the best man.

It'd taken a while for him to recognise a few faces he saw in his daily life too. Marcelis—the wedding his brother had invited him to had been Leopold's—stood with a group of other Ministry members, some even international (if the MACUSA pin on one man's coat was anything to go by). He looked at ease, but Florence knew the signs to look out for to try and give him a reason to escape. But Marcelis hadn't put his hands anywhere near his hair yet, which was a good sign so far.

There was Christian and Lorezno, two people he recalled having visited Hogwarts for one semester each year. The former had gathered a crowd, proud and putting himself on display, while the latter was clearly talking him up like he was some kind of hero. Florence pursed his lips. He remembered Damian complaining about Christian back in Hogwarts. They'd all been part of the duelling club, and apparently Lorenzo was forced to lose to Christian so the older brother wouldn't look like a fool for losing too many times. Damian would complain non-stop, and sometimes Florence would catch the tail end of Damian confronting Christian just before a teacher stepped in.

Lena, a fellow Hufflepuff; he hadn't seen her for a while, but she seemed to be doing well. She was always a cheerful girl, and Florence would admit that when she turned into her Animagus form, she had the same therapeutic aspects that the real deal tended to have. He'd sat in the common room while cuddling her, in her large golden retriever form, far too many times for him to count by now; everyone thinking he'd died after graduating had had some evidence in Florence's youth for that assumption, and Lena would hear more than anyone about his woes.

Florence shuffled away from the snack table and cleared his throat. He just had to give everyone a little more time, and then they'd be following through with the reception. Cake would be cut, gifts would be given, and the wedding party will see off the bride and groom while everyone on staff cleaned up.

He wasn't really looking as he thought this, but then again neither was the person who bumped into him. The fact that they were shorter than him, enough for him to overlook them as he searched for other familiar faces, probably made avoiding them a bit harder as well. It was a soft bump, a head being cushioned into his chest, but it was enough to startle Florence and almost knock the poor guest over entirely.

It wasn't until his hands were on his shoulders to steady her, to see if she was okay, that he recognised the face. He hadn't seen Ophelia in a long, long while. According to Meri she was travelling around, finding herself or something, and she only ever sent the occasional letter with her antics. Like everyone else she didn't recognise him; Ophelia just sniffed and wiped at her eyes with the heels of her hands, a tad flushed. Whether it was from the rum in her breath or the embarrassment she was clearly feeling, Florence couldn't tell.

"Shit. Sorry," she tried, not daring to look him in the eye. "I wasn't… Well, I should've seen there was someone in front of me."

"It's okay," Florence reassured her. "Can I help you with anything?"

She sniffed again and looked over her shoulder—to, Florence realised, a very agitated Armand at the bar. Ah, so it was a bit of both that had her red in the cheeks, he decided.

"I just need to…" Ophelia shook her head. "Do you know if someone named Prosper Ashcourt attended the wedding? He came with a guy named Ethan Jeong?"

Prosper Ashcourt and Ethan Jeong… Yes, he recalled those names being checked in attendance. He also recalled Kieran, Prosper's father, being marked as attended as well. And it really didn't take a genius to know that Kieran and Ophelia were to be kept separated at all costs. Luckily, Prosper and Ethan hadn't gone anywhere near the bridal party—not like Kieran had to congratulate the bride and groom.

"I think they might be at their seats—they were put in the middle row, east side. Do you want me to escort you over there?"

"No, it's fine. I kinda need to cool off on my own until I find them." Ophelia tucked short strands of hair behind her ear and sighed. "And thanks. It's probably inconvenient for the best man to be looking after guests."

Florence snorted a laugh. Not at all, considering he had to prove to the other guests he was worth the title. "It's fine. Anything for a friend, yeah?"

Now she looked up at him, bewildered. Ophelia didn't recognise him, not even when she took a step back and gave him a once-over; she just blinked, probably wondering if she'd heard right, and reached up for the hearing aid Florence remembered watching her turn off during countless arguments with other Slytherins.

"Fee, it's me. Florence. From Hufflepuff."

Ophelia squinted at him for a moment. The piercings all over his face probably didn't help any when comparing him to the boy he used to be, but surely there had to be some resemblance there for a friend to notice? Florence himself began to feel his cheeks warm, and he cleared his throat one it became apparent that she was still uncertain.

And then she was back in his reach, eyes wide and jaw dropped to the floor. "Oh my God."

Mentally Florence brought up the tally. So far the remarks that he'd died in a ditch and the he'd "self-destructed or something" were tied, and he wasn't too sure which one he'd rather see win by the end of the wedding.

"You got hot."

Florence wheezed and Ophelia slammed a hand over her own mouth. Now she was as red as a tomato, fully avoiding eye contact with him as Florence tried not to do anything weird. Being told he "got hot" was… new. And he had friends who had zero boundaries with each other; being told something _new_ was absolutely staggering.

The little Florence in his head, shrouded in grey, raised his brows and scribbled the new response down with a interested hum.

Florence coughed and Ophelia turned away from him. It had to be the rum destroying her filter, because she never really made observations like that—not as far as he knew. He fixed his collar and pointed weakly to the east side of the tent, where Prosper and Ethan probably were.

"A—Anyway, over there is your best bet," he fumbled.

"Thanks," Ophelia mumbled. As soon as she thought she was out of an earshot, yet still clear enough for Florence to hear, she whispered to herself, "_What was that? What the fuck was that?_"

If she ever found an answer, Florence would definitely appreciate it.

He turned back for the snack table and ran a hand through his hair. Some people were looking at him, grinning, as though they'd heard the whole exchange; others minded their own business, instead talking endlessly about what they liked about the wedding so far and the things they wished had been improved upon. Florence pinched at his brow and sucked in a deep breath. Oh, how he'd throw himself into his work once this day was done. At the rate he was going, Marcelis would have more good things to say than Florence would.

Deacon walked past, seemingly out of nowhere, and patted Florence's back roughly. Florence was too busy stuffing a large danish into his mouth to whine back at him.

"Easy on the carbs, lady killer," Deacon deadpanned. "Don't wanna lose your hot figure."

And just as quickly as he'd come to poke fun at Florence, he was gone. Vanished within the crowd of Quidditch fans eagerly wanting autographs.

* * *

"I haven't seen you in _forever_!"

Meri and Kamilah hugged tightly when they caught sight of each other. It was true—Kamilah wasn't lucky like Damian, she wasn't able to see Meri as often as she wanted. Aurors were a lot more busy than people gave them credit for.

"How've you been, Kami? I'm so sorry I never wrote to you!" Meri looked up at Kamilah with a wide smile.

"Work for the Ministry now, and I must say it's rather fun punishing naughty witches and wizards." Kamilah laughed to herself. Ever so slowly other people were growing the courage to approach, hoping to pull the sister of the bride away from a mere guest. But Kamilah had a strong grip, and she was milking all the time she had with Meri for all it was worth. "And you? Don't think I didn't notice the engagement ring, little miss!"

A quick glance out the corner of her eye told her that Armand had finished getting their drinks. Damian wasn't nearby—apparently he and the husband of a Hogwarts staff member were competing to see who was more fashionable, and as much as she wanted to see it Armand definitely needed some backup for today.

"Ah, right. Wally and I, we're not sure when it'll happen," Meri admitted. More people approached, curious at the mention of Walter. "But Clotilde's given me some ideas."

"Make sure you invite me, yeah?"

"Naturally."

They chatted about mundane things, such as where they were living now and what they got up to in their spare time. It was humbling to see that Meri had gone for the muggle lifestyle, so much so that her own broom had gathered dust compared to the days where she'd play the part of Seeker. Kamilah was sure she wasn't the only one to think so, but part of her had assumed Meri would go for a career in Quidditch like some of her teammates had—like Deacon. Looking at the woman now, though… Yeah, running a bookstore and living in an apartment with her fiance in London definitely suited her more than fame and glory wrapped in a Cleansweep Eleven-shaped bow.

It was a nice conversation, and it would've stayed nice if she hadn't noticed the sullen look on Armand's face as he got closer. Lord, she thought; had Damian made it through their foolproof planning already?

"That reminds me," Kamilah said as he got closer. "Did you ever meet Wes?"

"Wes… I don't recall."

"Let me introduce you. Wes, hop to it with my drink already!"

Armand gave her an annoyed glare as he quickened his pace. Neither drink spilled, through some kind of miracle, and Kamilah was pleased to find that he'd remembered what she'd ordered. She went to grab for the Jack Rose, but Armand was quick to down it all in one gulp as he thrusted the Shirley Temple Black her way.

Oh. Well, he was in the sourest of moods it seemed.

Kamilah took the non-alcoholic drink with a forlorn sigh, but continued on her quest to introduce her two friends anyway.

"Wes, you remember Meri, right? Damian's chum?" She linked her arm around his own as his expression soured even more. "Meri, this is Armand Wesley. I'm his only friend, it seems."

"Colleague," Armand grunted immediately.

"That's the part you want to correct me on? _That_ part?"

Meri tried to stifle a laugh. "Right, I remember you I think. I never knew you went by Wes—do you work in the Ministry with Kamilah?"

"I need another one of these," Armand muttered to himself instead of answering. Meri blinked at him, as did Kamilah. "Enjoy the Bird Squad reunion. If you'll excuse me."

Meri was full-on gawking once he said that. She stammered at Kamilah that she had no idea what he was talking about (a lie, but she wasn't going to call her out on it; the fact that she lied meant they _weren't_ registered), and soon enough Kamilah was left on her own to watch Armand seek out the bartender again.

She stomped over and grabbed him by the collar of his blazer. Armand let out a yelp, but didn't make an effort to fight back as she dragged him back to their table. She sat him down, downed her own drink in one go, and sat down next to him.

"What the hell happened? You only went to the bar." She pushed both their glasses aside and levelled him with a hard stare.

"Nothing," he insisted. (Another lie, because he always let down his guard when he stressed and Kamilah was nothing if not an opportunist.) "I just—I'm not having a good run with birds."

"To clarify—"

"_No_, I'm not talking about women. When do I ever talk about women, Kamilah?"

"I do recall you gushing about an ex girlfriend a while back." She shrugged. "And I don't see any birds here—_Oh_."

Armand buried his face in his hands. He shook his head and groaned.

"To further clarify—"

"It was Ophelia. For crying out loud, Kami."

"Well now you're talking about a woman." He gave her a glare through his fingers. "Sheesh, not even a reprimand? Was it that bad?"

He responded by leaning down on the table and letting out a whine. Okay, she really needed to be clued in on the situation now. She knew why he had a problem with Damian, and maybe Meri if he assumed she was like all Sinisters tended to be. But Ophelia… She recalled Armand and Ophelia being competitive any time they saw each other, but not aggressive.

She patted him on the back and sighed. "Give me the rundown. I need to know if I'm going to be justified in punching her."

"You won't be."

"Christ, what did you _do_?"

"Nothing! Not today at least. We just… I tried to apologise to her and she wouldn't accept it until I made up with Damian."

Kamilah raised a brow at him. Her silence was enough to make him look back up at her, frustrated.

"I'm not giving that basilisk lover my apologies! He had it coming for what he pulled—" Armand cut himself off, and Kamilah watched on as a dark look passed over him. Like this was a rehearsed response, yet something new was forcing him to doubt it.

She pounced. She delved as quickly as she could into his mind, held his distracted gaze as she wormed her way inside. He was just going to be talking in circles like this, and she couldn't help if he couldn't say it outright. She could find spells, flashes of magical beasts—and then nothing. Armand realised almost immediately what she was doing, and he built up his walls faster than he ever had before.

Kamilah let go of him as though burned. Armand just buried his face in his arms and gave up entirely on talking.

"It's fine," he told her. "I won't be seeing them again after today. I don't need to worry about it."

Distantly there was a chiming of bells, a house elf announcing that the wedding reception would be starting and for all guests to take their seats. Kamilah didn't bother to check if she was at her own. She and Armand were at the same table, and whoever was next to him had to deal with her before they pushed her tush out of this chair.

Instead of pushing him, she just leaned her elbows on the table and told him, "When you're ready, Wes, you know I'm here for you."

He grunted. Not long after, their table was filled with the other guests and the groom clinked a spoon against his champagne glass.

Bartenders exited the bar and began placing menus down on the tables for everyone. Once the round of menus was done, champagne glasses like the groom's were distributed. Kamilah swirled her own with a scrutinous sneer. She was never a champagne person, but there was always an exception she supposed.

"Friends, family, esteemed guests," Leopold Ainsworth began. He stood by the long table at the front of the tent with his wife, a wand at his throat to project his voice as far as it could go. "We thank you for joining us on this momentous occasion. When I had met Clotilde, I had never imagined in my wildest dreams that we would have so many loved ones, so many we respected, wishing us well on our big day."

There were a few pleased sounds from the guests—probably the ones who were in the "esteemed" category.

"We thank you for gathering, for the gifts you've brought. But most of all, we thank you for supporting our union. Without the astounding support we received, none of this would be possible."

Clotilde rose from her seat beside him, champagne glass in hand, and they both performed a staple of every wedding as they declared, "Cheers!" at the top of their voices. Arms linked around each other, they drank their champagne facing each other completely.

Kamilah downed her champagne in one go, as did Armand, and she was surprised to find everyone else doing the same. Wasn't there some kind of etiquette when it came to drinking fancy wine? Sips, swishes, maybe a spit—but never a single gulp? Maybe she wasn't as knowledgeable as she thought she was on the matter. But it was odd to notice either way.

Clotilde took over then, wand pressed to her throat as she went on, "I'd also like to thank Miss Keira Kapoor especially for the simply _amazing_ work she did on all of our clothing. I can't recommend her services enough, and I hope to see her works gain traction in the future—"

The table rattled loudly, glasses falling over the edge and shattering on the floor of the tent. Clotilde stopped, stunned, and looked back to her husband questioningly. She wasn't the only one to wonder what was going on, and she was far from the only one to be rendered speechless by the sight before her.

Leopold had collapsed right on top of the table, and from where Kamilah was sitting, blood was already staining the white fabric that had cushioned him.

* * *

**Can you believe I was going to leave that at two POVs? The gall of past me!**

**Well that's the wedding started! We've got some hints to some past events and we've got some spicy interactions. Lemme know your thots and oninions, as usual, and I'll see you in the next chapter!**

**ALSO: If there's any among you interested in the Mortal Instruments (be it the books, the tv series, or even the movie) AND like making OCs, you can find a link to a forum on my profile for an upcoming project called Among the Sef! Attention is primarily on Meridian Sinister for the time being, but it can't hurt to let you guys know what I have planned for the future!**


	6. VI

**What is UP my dudes! A slightly shorter update but we've gotten to where I wanted to with it and I am 100% ready for following chapters! Hope you're all staying safe and I'll see you at the end of the chapter!**

* * *

**VI.**

* * *

_May, 2013_

He crashed onto the floor with a resounding _crunch_ from his arm. The Gryffindors that loomed above him snickered at the sight, but he didn't let a single peep out. They long since knew that he never cried out now that he was used to the treatment, now that he fought so desperately to keep a clear head.

They'd dragged Florence here, to the sixth floor bathroom, and not a single person had been around to stop them—no surprise there. Most of his friends were in Slytherin, and what would a Slytherin be doing anywhere near a Gryffindor to begin with? It wasn't like his fellow Hufflepuffs, save for a few who'd been distracted beforehand, would lift a finger to help him either. So, like every instance where these boys got bored, they crowded Florence and pushed him through the bathroom doors. And when the doors shut behind them, they pulled out their wands and began their ritualistic song and dance.

"Show us already," one boy said. Florence recalled hearing him being referred to by his surname, but even then it had been out of an earshot. Nelly? Mully? Whatever the name was, his ungodly BO always earned him the moniker of Smelly to Florence. "You can't hide it forever, mudblood."

Florence cradled his more than likely shattered elbow. Madam Promfrey was used to him coming in for help along these lines too, so he knew what he was in for. He'd have to ask Professor McGonnigal for an extension on his homework. The bastards always made sure to push him onto his wand hand, and Florence _always_ found himself with some kind of injury that made casting spells more difficult than they already were. He was sick of this. He was already struggling as it was, with his volatile, powerful magic. He could never control it like the others could, and they still insisted on making things harder for him. Was it not enough that he'd more than likely drop out? That the professors would eventually declare him a danger to other students? Did they really need to speed up the process so badly?

One of the taps began to run. Florence looked up from his arm, if only to see if someone had come in and given the boys pause; but soon a wand was aimed at the steady stream, and Smelly scoffed, "_Oppugno_."

This was a new tactic. The stream of water exploded from the faucet in large bursts, and Florence tried in vain to shield his face as it crashed into him violently. They were practically waterboarding him now, laughing as Florence sputtered and gagged with each wave that hit his face.

"I was talking to you, freak," Smelly drawled as Florence gasped for air. The assault ended, mercifully, just as he was sure he'd be drowned on the floor of the bathroom. "Answer a pureblood when they talk to you."

Florence could laugh, if he wasn't choking on air and water. Last time they'd done this, the order had been to _not_ speak unless told to. Now it was speak when _spoken to_.

"Looks like a rat dragged from the gutter," one of his cronies laughed. The others chimed in, but it was an old insult. They were excellent at dueling and spells, but God their wit left far too much to be desired. They exhausted all of their insults during the first week, and Florence had called himself _plenty_ more hurtful things for much _longer_ than just a week before he'd started recycling self deprecating insults.

"I wonder if he has rabies!" another joked. They let out mock sounds of disgust. "Probably carrying a plague!"

If Florence carried a plague, he'd make these assholes his patient zeroes. And he'd make it as fatal as possible.

He could do it, he reasoned as he finally began breathing normally again. After all, to some wizards he _was_ a plague. If not for his muggleborn status, a stain on pureblood pride, then… For what his upbringing had turned him into. For the power he was so scared of letting loose, for the power he'd probably be killed for on a good day.

_He could do it._ No one would know. There were too many hazards in the wizarding world for something to trace back to him, right? Even if a spell went wrong, if he put too much power into it and killed one of them… No one would trace it back to him immediately.

_So do it_, the small, rebellious part of him urged.

One of Smelly's cronies flew past Florence out of nowhere. Throw off his feet, hurtling face-first into a stall behind Florence. Florence squeezed his eyes shut, startled, as the loud crash echoed throughout the bathroom; when he dared open then again, just to see what had happened, he saw a stall with its door blown clean off, and an unconscious cronie half on what remained of the door and half on the cracked toilet.

"Whoops!" came the younger voice from the bathroom entrance. The Gryffindors turned around, alarmed, and before them was an underclassman with his wand in hand and aimed in their direction. "My aim wasn't the best there."

Smelly was on the defensive immediately. "What the fuck, Aisnworth! You useless little twat!"

"I told you," the younger Gryffindor whined, guilty, "my aim wasn't as good as it could've been."

"You could've hit me!" Smelly gestured to Florence. "Maybe give me a heads up before you try to join in with a knockback jinx!"

Florence's hopes were dashed by the newcomer. He knew the habits of these boys, but not this one. Ainsworth was a stranger, someone he'd never met before, and the innocent look on his face practically screamed that he was in league with his peers. A pureblood who wanted to fit in, who did anything to fit in even if it hurt others.

_Maybe it would be better off to let loose and be exterminated for it_.

Ainsworth lowered his wand and casually walked forward. He came to a short stop at the bathroom sink, switched off the tap that Florence hadn't even noticed was still running.

"Join in?" Ainsworth asked innocently. He looked down to Florence with his bright smile, then at Smelly. "I wasn't joining in."

He sucked in a deep breath and tucked away his wand. As Ainsworth glanced behind him, everyone became aware of the fact that he'd left the bathroom door _wide open_.

"Careful, guys!" he yelled at the top of his voice. "It's not safe to practice dueling in the bathrooms!"

And then, without a shred of hesitation, Ainsworth flung his head into the mirror. Once, twice, three times; each crack in the glass getting larger and larger, until finally Ainsworth left blood in his wake.

Like clockwork, a prefect came running in with his peers in tow. The Gryffindors watched in horror as Ainsworth collapsed to the floor, dazed and bleeding, and the prefect ordered his friend to fetch a professor.

It all happened so fast, the aftermath of this underclassman's actions. Wands were drawn, the Gryffindors stopped from escaping, and all the while Ainsworth sat on the ground and cradled his face. Florence swallowed thickly, eyes wide as he took in the sight before him. No one from Gryffindor had ever actually… stopped their fellow Gryffindors from tormenting him. They all had an inflated ego that made them think they were heroes—heroes for othering anything dangerous, human or not. But this Ainsworth boy did the opposite.

The rage that had built inside of him quelled, and Florence could feel the small Florence in his mind hum as he took notes. This was different. Good different, but cautious different too.

It was so different—left him too vastly unprepared for the results—that Florence never even noticed the young Gryffindor crawl over to his side. There was blood dripping down his face, staining his hair copper, but he was clearly more focused on Florence.

"How bad's the arm?" he asked. Florence narrowed his eyes at the boy.

"Why do you care?"

"Well…" He shrugged, clearly off-balance as he wobbled while sitting next to Florence. "Pain kind of hurts, y'know?"

The voice of a prefect rang out, "Careful there, Ainsworth. These idiots already provoked him enough. They ought to know better when it comes to this one."

Ainsworth raised his brows. When he looked at Florence, noticed the gold tie and Hufflepuff emblem, he let out a loud gasp.

"You're him," he said. "You're the one with—"

"I'm not giving a demonstration," Florence snapped. Ainsworth wasn't even fazed.

"Course not," he agreed. "Too much energy wasted for both of us. But you _are_—"

"Give it a rest, Ainsworth," the prefect went on. Almost as soon the command was given, professors began rushing in and taking over the situation.

No sooner had Madam Pomfrey walked in did Florence find himself tucked under her arm, a soothing rub to his shoulder with every step towards the infirmary made. Ainsworth followed suit, prefect helping him keep his balance, and the trip was silent overall. It wasn't until Florence was patched up and had his wand arm in a sling that he heard, one bed over, the short-lived exchange between the prefect and his underclassman.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"You guys never stop them from doing it. So I thought I would try."

"And give yourself a concussion? Worse? What if that _thing_ had lost control?"

"Seemed awful calm to me. Besides, ignoring poor behaviour from my seniors would make a terrible first impression for someone I want to befriend."

* * *

_August 12th, 2019_

"Leo…?"

Florence couldn't breathe. Everyone, even the bride beside the body, was rooted to the spot—frozen with shock, horror, fear. This wasn't really happening, was it? He hadn't just… No, surely he wasn't dead.

And then those more used to such sights jumped into action. Aurors like Kamilah jumping from their tables, herbologists and potioneers alike following at their heels. Everything seemed to be moving too fast, happening all at once; Florence could hardly keep his legs from dropping him to the floor entirely. Clotilde stared, wide-eyed, down at her husband; and even as she was pulled aside by one of the Aurors to make space for the other experts, she kept her gaze glued to him. Florence could see the colour draining from her face. She looked no different than he used to, back when things were at their breaking point for him.

Meri darted past, just in time to witness the small dribble of blood slip from Clotilde's nostrils. It landed on the bodice of her dress, streaked down her skirt, and Clotilde just wiped at her nose like it was a new experience. She stared at the blood, almost as though not recognising that it was her own, before Meri screamed at the sight of the bride collapsing into the nearest Auror's arms.

He'd only ever heard himself scream like that.

The noise, the anguish, the raw pain. The deathly pallor. Too similar. Too close to what he used to be. He never wanted to see that side of himself again—

Hands grabbed at him from all directions. Florence sucked in a deep breath, staggering as he was pulled back from the scene. When his eyes focused on the nearest person, the nearest Auror, a scared gaze was glued to him despite the firmness of their grip.

"You need to _move_," they told him in a low voice. Florence furrowed his brows at them, slowly counting how many seconds he needed before he had to take a new breath in. "You're not stable."

Florence blinked at them then. What did they mean, he wasn't stable? Was he sick too? No way, were more people collapsing?

And then it hit him. The edges of his vision blackened, the sounds around him becoming muffled, like he was stuck underwater. No matter how much he tried, Florence's chest kept on caving in on itself and refusing to let him breathe—let him be calm. Was he about to go off? Have an episode? _Now_ of all times?

More hands grabbed at him, but they were pulling him from the Auror and telling them to back off. It was hard to forget Fee's voice, no matter how aggressive it sounded. _She called you something nice_, the small Florence within weakly reminded him. He leaned into her grip as she pulled him away from the banquet table, the thrumming in his ears and the ache in his chest slowly abiding the more she told him everything was okay.

"Breathe, Florence," she urged him, doing her best to keep his attention on her. Every so often Florence would dare a glance back at the banquet, only for Fee to grab his face and pull his gaze back to her. "The Aurors are taking care of everything—_breathe_."

Right. The Auror's were taking care of everything. Florence tried to keep his breathing steady, following along with Ophelia as she continued to reassure him. Everything was going to be fine. The Aurors would handle this. Everyone was going to be okay.

She dragged him away, towards an empty seat, and she sat him down just as a few house elves rushed through the crowd. Ophelia wasted no time bringing Florence's own hands to his ears, holding them softly in place; he kept his gaze glued to the centrepiece of lotus flowers all the while, counting the petals over and over and over. The efforts she went to in the hopes of calming Florence worked out, for a time—but when the man across the table collapsed, his body knocking the centrepiece away, both Florence and Ophelia jumped out of their chairs with horrified screams.

No matter how much they tried to call for help, other people's screams drowned them out as tables flipped over, as children began screeching, as people kept dropping like flies. Each and every one of them, pale as a corpse and leaking blood from _somewhere_—their eyes, their noses, their mouths. And each time Florence caught the barest of glimpses, he saw himself; the Florence back at Hogwarts, the Florence barely able to survive, the Florence who was a ticking time bomb. He stumbled back, panic setting in once again, and he would have backed right into a wall of the tent if he hadn't tripped over a body. Florence tumbled to the ground with Ophelia trailing behind him, still clutching his hands, and she desperately tried to drag him away as the body on the ground let out a death rattle.

"Everyone stay calm!" an Auror shouted above the hysteria. A few witches and wizards obeyed, huddling together and trying to gather their bearings—but the ones related to those who collapsed only continued screaming, continued cradling their loved ones in their arms. Even from here, on the ground where he and Ophelia had huddled together to catch their breaths, Florence could see Meri patting Clotilde's hair and crying so hard that her makeup was streaking down her face, staining the veil still haphazardly pinned to Clotilde's hair.

"Are there any owls we can use?" another Auror shouted. A potioneer stumbled out of a tent used for preparation by the groomsmen, various jars and tonics kept in case of emergencies tucked in their arms. It was only natural they keep remedies back in the tent, just in case something happened at the wedding that required some treatment. But… Florence wasn't sure anything would be able to treat this. Whatever this was.

"I've got one still breathing over here!" The herbologist who alerted those nearby held an older man in her arms, wand between her teeth and a jar of salve being spooned between his lips. This one… Florence swore he knew this one. Someone from the Ministry? Yes—that was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Deacon's father!

"I can't—I don't recognise the symptoms!" another potioneer panicked. At his side, Damian was taking off his jacket and casting the summoning charm; bottle after bottle of antivenom sprang from his inner pockets, each one just outside of range of what was needed. He was so clearly torn between helping out, using his knowledge as a Magizoologist in some way to treat the sick—no, the dead, they were dead—and getting Meri away from Clotilde so the bride could be treated.

It was too much. There was just too much going on. He couldn't—There was no way Florence could keep up.

As soon as the thought crossed him, his hands fell limp in Ophelia's grip. She looked up at him, alarmed and begging him to calm down, but Florence was already beyond the point of return. The world around him dulled, no sound reaching his ears even as Ophelia tried to shake him. It was too much. He couldn't keep up.

So he checked out.

* * *

She shouldn't have come to this stupid wedding. For one thing, she didn't even _know_ the bride and groom. For another, wizarding events were way behind her now that she wasn't in school. She lived the muggle life. She didn't live… _this_.

Amelia didn't live magical intrigue and the beginnings of a murder mystery at a wedding. Amelia didn't live _fiction_.

Everyone at her table had collapsed, knocking wine all over Amelia, and she stood over them with her hands over her mouth. Not even ten minutes ago she was chatting with them, talking about art and their jobs and music, complimenting the singer who was supposedly hired by the bridal party, and now… Nothing. No signs of life, no warmth to their skin, nothing. Instead of the enjoyable time she was having just socialising, there was only anguish and hysteria filling the tent. No one knew what to do—not even the Aurors, who braved dark witches and wizards for a living, or the herbologists and potioneers who _studied_ what could kill and heal a person. And those like Amelia, so normal and outside of the prestigious professions others held, were completely and utterly lost all the while.

One of the men who'd been sitting at her table, an Israeli man who'd been rubbing at the wedding band around his finger more than he'd talked, was immediately beset by a woman Amelia hadn't seen yet. She skidded to a halt by his side, scuffing the skirt of her evening gown as she did so among the wine and blood, and she grabbed his face with so much panic, so much stress, that even Amelia could feel just how dire the situation was for her.

The blond kept repeating over and over, "No, no, Elias, no," softly enough that Amelia almost missed it, and then a wand was pulled from her purse; a flash of light, a blue so calming that for a moment Amelia felt safe, and then she was backing away with her heart in her chest. When the woman lowered her wand, before her stood the phantom visage of a horse—so much like Amelia's, Amelia herself swore she'd summoned it somehow without her wand.

The patronus galloped through the tent, past countless other people, before soaring through the air and out into the world. Elias—the man on the ground—was cradled in the woman's arms as she rocked back and forth, biting back tears with the most pained expression Amelia had ever seen in her life. Amelia opened and closed her mouth, the words just dissolving in her throat each time they tried to come out. She wasn't the only one to notice the patronus leave the tent—others belonging to Aurors all zipped past, culminating in a lion roaring above the ruckus before fleeing with the other patronuses.

A call for help. It was all anyone could do in this situation.

Hands lightly grabbed at her, urging her to walk. Amelia jumped, startled, but followed nonetheless. The man who spoke to her had been hanging out with the Ministry bigwigs earlier, and he was quick to call any free Aurors over to the table.

"Please, this way, miss," he told her, voice wavering despite the authoritative tone. He was just as startled as everyone else.

Amelia looked up at him with wide eyes. Not once did the woman holding Elias acknowledge them. "What… What's going on?" she tried, tearing her gaze away from as many bodies as possible.

"I don't know," he admitted, half under his breath. He scanned the crowd as he spoke, searching for something—someone? "But we'll figure out what we can do."

The man escorted her a little further, and then he was pausing, brows furrowed as he held his breath. "Hell," he hissed. He waved down another Auror, adding much louder, "Keep an eye on that best man before he brings the place down!"

Best man? Florence was the best man, right? Why did they need to—Oh God. Amelia felt the blood drain from her face. Oh God, the stress was definitely going to set him off. They were trapped in here with him if it did.

"Sh—Should we e—" she tried, but the image of just what might happen if one more thing went wrong haunted her beyond words. She didn't want to die. She didn't want to _die_.

Tears pricked at her eyes. Amelia sucked in deep breaths in an attempt to steel herself, to make her body move before she was so overcome with fear she dropped to the ground. Keep moving—don't stop—don't become one of the many names that would be carved into a memorial somewhere nearby—don't let yourself get caught in the crossfire—don't—

A shout from the banquet table. A scream, first of surprise, but then of joy. "_He's still alive!_"

The man halted, as did Amelia. From where they stood, they could see all heads turning towards the banquet table. Turning towards the convulsing body of the groom, joints cracking loudly as they worked themselves, stretched and flexed. As the body of Leopold slowly pushed itself upright, back to its feet, and his eyes fluttered open with newfound life.

For a moment he stared back at the bewildered gazes stuck to him. His expression was blank, his skin still a deathly pallor. Leopold slowly lifted his hands, palms up, and he flexed his fingers one by one—his expression was like that of a child discovering something new, then, brightening with each second.

"Huh," was his first word, heard all the way where Amelia and the man stood thanks to the newfound silence.

Leopold lowered his hands to his chest then, blinking at everyone. He tore open his blazer, undid his tie. With trembling hands and an almost excited glint to his eyes, Leopold took either side of his dress shirt and all but ripped it open. Buttons burst off, people all around startled by the sudden action, but it wasn't what had them—or Leopold—so worked up once he was done. No, that honour went to what he exposed to the world in his haste to check whatever it was that had him so excited.

No one had noticed it earlier, but then how could anyone? A gemstone like that wasn't supposed to glow, not so brightly at least. A gemstone that large was never usually embedded into a person's chest, either, pulsing light into the skin around it like a heart pumping blood. Amelia was no expert on gemstones, but she knew diamonds when she saw them—and what was sticking out of Leopold's chest like a second heart was most certainly a diamond.

He touched it lightly with one of his hands, and he seemed to shudder as his smile grew. "Oh my," he almost laughed, more to himself than anyone else. "Oh _my_."

Leopold stumbled. He looked for his bride, wide-eyed and grinning; he didn't seem to notice that, with every pulse that came from the diamond in his chest, his skin became paler and paler. Amelia rubbed her eyes furiously when she swore she saw the shape of his ribcage. It wasn't making him transparent, was it? Her eyes had to be playing tricks on her.

The blue-haired woman holding the bride was speechless. Leopold stumbled towards her, arms outstretched, and she finally filled the silence he'd created.

"You're… You're alive…"

Leopold gave her an excited nod. Like he was responding to something _vastly_ different to what she'd just uttered.

She looked from Leopold to the bride, and then she was snapping to attention. "Medical—We need to get everyone treated. You could've been poisoned—"

"Poisoned?" Leopold smiled at her sweetly. He was within reach of her now, and Amelia could see his bride's hands beginning to twitch. "Who said we were poisoned?"

And then, with one arm raised towards one side of the tent, he addressed his guests with a booming voice: "Be careful everyone! If you haven't collapsed, you won't survive the Obscurial when he blows."

Amelia's heart leapt into her throat. She pulled at the man, desperate to either make him run with her or force him to let her go so she could get a headstart.

Florence—the Obscurial—was about to lose control.

* * *

**What a ride and a half. Who's ready for the chaos? I sure as hell am. Call this wedding Mr. Bones Wild Ride because no one's getting off.**

**And for those wondering what happened to the form and rules on my profile for future subs/cast changeovers, don't worry! I've just moved it to a forum where I'll add additional world info and recaps of major events, as well as keep a regular updated list! It's called "Meridian Sinister Forum" and it's just me wanting to make sure I have the room for Among the Sef's information on my profile - which you can submit to if you're interested in the Mortal Instruments!**

**With that aside, what are your thots and onions?**


	7. VII

**VII.**

* * *

_August 12th, 2019_

"Catastrophe", when used in the wizarding world, was only reserved for the most tragic of losses.

"Massacre", when used in the wizarding world, was only reserved for when that loss was violent beyond repair.

So when people would look back on today, they would call it a catastrophic massacre. There would be no exaggeration in the designation, no downplaying how badly it had rocked the wizarding world. It would be just as they said it was.

Florence's eyes had glazed over almost as soon as Ophelia had pulled him away from the body, but he'd only been toeing the line that divided him from the Obscurus. He could've been calmed down. She'd held onto him, begged him to snap out of it and that everything was going to be okay—and just as he'd come to, the cloudiness clearing from his eyes, Leopold had made his announcement. The horror on Florence's face, the colour draining from his face—he'd _heard_ it, Leopold had _waited_ for the chance to say it.

Ophelia only had a few seconds to prepare when Florence started convulsing. The Obscurus began to leak from his body, reducing Florence to an intangible state as the mass of darkness grew and grew. All Ophelia could do, reacting purely out of instinct, was turn into a storm petrel and scramble for the nearest exit. She'd never seen one of his episodes, but she knew enough about the dangers of an Obscurial who lost control over their emotions; all the shock, horror and betrayal Florence was experiencing would decimate the place in an instant. And when he calmed down, the aftermath would send him spiralling into another episode that would cycle into more and more and more.

His grief and self deprecation would never let him go back to being human at this rate.

She flew out of the tent just as Florence exploded. Behind her she could hear the shrieks and clattering of bodies hitting the walls, tables and chairs torn apart and thrown in every direction—and then finally the pressure made the tent burst, countless people and items rolling out of the small tent onto the field outside. Ophelia flew as high as she could, unwilling to look at the damage that had been done. She hovered over so many unmoving bodies, so many people getting back up like nothing had happened, before finally she darted out of the way of the Obscurus whizzing past her—high into the clouds, debris from the tent falling to the ground in its wake.

Compared to the earlier horror, the hysteria that had gripped everyone, the wedding guests were silent. No matter how much Ophelia tried not to think about it, the thought forced itself to the forefront of her mind: _How many of them were dead for real this time?_

The thought was enough to distract her from the people slowly regaining their bearings on the ground. Ophelia never even noticed that her own family, the Ashcourts, had been thrown from the tent alongside everyone else. She never even noticed her uncle—the one person she feared most in the world—had recognised her even in her animal form.

"_Confringo_!" came the shout from below. Ophelia barely noticed in time before the explosion of fire barrelled towards her. Tailfeathers were burnt as she swooped out of the way, more and more fireballs flung up at her. Ophelia tried to find cover, but there was none up in the air; each attack forced her closer to the ground, where she'd be forced to defend herself unless someone stepped in.

She knew her uncle hated her—everyone knew—but was now really the time to try and humiliate her again? To mercilessly attack her?

Finally Ophelia tumbled to the ground, shifting back into her human form, and she rolled through the grass as she felt the burns to her skin crying out in pain. Kieran Ashcourt walked leisurely over to her, loosening the tie around his neck like he was preparing to wind down for the day; Ophelia grabbed for her wand, desperate to defend herself, and she found it just as he aimed a hand in her direction.

Wandless magic? Kieran had never been capable of such a feat before. Even Ophelia would've known if he'd accomplished that much.

She half-rose to her feet, casting a shield charm as she did so, but the force of Kieran's spells knocked her back to the ground with each impact. She was struggling to keep up, and with each strike she blocked her wand found itself closer and closer to being thrown from her grasp.

"What are you doing!?" Ophelia screamed at him. "Now isn't the time, Uncle!"

"Now is the perfect time," Kieran said calmly. He raised his hand again, and just as Ophelia prepared to cast another shield charm, Kieran hissed, "_Expelliarmus_."

Her wand was flung from her hand, Ophelia knocked back to the ground once more. Panic filled her chest. As others began to panic around them, realising that the dead had come back as soon as Florence had let the Obscurus out—more so that some were _truly_ dead this time—Ophelia could see the remnants of the wedding tent set ablaze by a stray spell.

She turned her back to Kieran, desperate to arm herself again, and as she did so he let out a laugh. "I'm going to enjoy finally purging you from this family, _half-blood_."

Kieran started his incantation, getting a single syllable out, and Ophelia choked back a sob as her hand failed to reach for her wand. She squeezed her eyes shut—she was going to die. He was really going to kill her this time. _She was going to die_.

And then a loud _thwack_ echoed through the small patch of grass they were isolated in. Ophelia heard a body hit the ground, a thump so heavy she swore it had to be Kieran, but she didn't dare look. She didn't want him to be the last thing she saw.

A body crashed into her, significantly smaller than her uncle's, and Ophelia couldn't find the words to describe how relieved she was when a girl her age yanked her to her feet. Ophelia grabbed her wand at the last minute, tucking it back into her sleeve, and she finally dared a glance back at her uncle. Kieran was on the ground, a large gash on his head leaking blood to the ground; by his side, a bloodied folding chair lay with a dent on its back. She looked back at the girl, who already had her own wand ready, and slowly pieced together what happened.

She gave him the chair. Just… ran over and whacked him with a chair so hard he was bleeding. Ophelia would never critique American wrestling shows for being unrealistic ever again if she survived this.

Kieran gasped loudly, jolting awake, and Ophelia let out a loud, "_Oh my fuck!_"

The other woman seemed to notice her panic, and she seemed to react a bit more appropriately for their situation. Rather than scream like Ophelia had, the brunette grabbed her free hand and tugged her behind her as she waved her wand and wheezed, "_Fumos Duo!_"

Smoke exploded from the wand, blinding Ophelia and even a slowly rising Kieran. He screamed, angered by the way this stranger took his prey, and his screams only got angrier as he blindly flung fireballs through the smog. One barely missed Ophelia, but she didn't pay it much mind. She was far too busy trying not to trip as the woman led her through the smoke and to safety at last. The further Kieran's howls descended into the smog, the more Ophelia's heart began to beat once more and remind her that she survived.

While the reception tent had been burning, other smaller installations were untouched. Ophelia was dragged past others, people who were still unconscious or processing what had happened, and good God, this wedding had turned into a nightmare. She couldn't tell the dead from the fake-dead or even the living. There was so much blood, so many injuries, and even the woman guiding her to safety looked battered to the point of incapacitation. But the grip on her hand never wavered, not until they were out of sight and over a small hill; as soon as Ophelia was tucked behind the natural trench's walls, the young woman readied her wand again.

Breathlessly she asked, "Do you need healing?"

Ophelia shook her head. For all the minor burns she had, they were nothing compared to everyone else. She was lucky—she got away thanks to being an unregistered Animagus.

"Th—Thank you," Ophelia gasped, out of breath compared to the other woman. "He was—He really was gonna kill me."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"He didn't see where we went, right?" When the brunette shook her head, Ophelia sank into the dirt and felt her limbs go numb. The tumble really did a number on her, she must not have transformed fully back until after hitting the ground. If she'd broken a wing… Ophelia tried not to entertain the thought. "I'm fine."

"You were the one next to Florence, right?" The brunette inched closer to Ophelia, lowering her voice. The chaos back at the reception tent was much easier to hear now. "Did you see where he went?"

Ophelia sucked in a deep breath. This person wasn't about to hurt Florence, right? It wasn't his fault—Leopold had clearly intended on stressing him to this point. But when Ophelia gave the woman a proper look, actually took in her expression, she didn't see anything like anger or determination or some drive to hunt him down. She saw fear—fear for a friend.

Ophelia exhaled slowly and shook her head. "He flew off high and I lost sight of him. With any luck, he'll have fled for somewhere safe—Obscurials do that, right?"

The woman slumped, resting her head on Ophelia's shoulder. She let out a relieved laugh. "Thank goodness. I hope he doesn't blame himself…"

It was an awkward position. Ophelia tried not to ruin the moment of peace this woman was feeling by pointing out that her shoulder was already blistering under her forehead.

But the moment of peace ended as soon as it came to her. She pushed herself into a crouch, still hiding from view beyond the trench, and she sucked in a steeling breath. She gave Ophelia one more check over, offering a third time to heal her, but Ophelia denied all the same. She had her own wand with her—a simple spell would be easy enough to manage on her own.

So her saviour gave her a reassuring smile, strained among the stress she was obviously experiencing now that her concern over Florence had been settled. Without so much as another word, the woman climbed over the trench wall and fled from Ophelia's sight. And when Ophelia dared a peek at where she was going, all she saw in the woman's place was a golden retriever making a beeline for the burning reception tent.

* * *

The smoke in the air was suffocating, the chaos of Florence's outburst leaving a stain on the meadow the wedding had been set up in. Aurora had been cradling Elias in her arms, praying he wasn't truly dead, and now their roles were reversed. An impossibly alive Elias, looking not quite like he should, was carrying her from the tent and begging her to stay with him—don't breathe in the smoke, don't pass out, don't _anything_.

Aurora had followed the lead that showed her husband coming here. She'd argued with her brother that she wouldn't get hurt, that she'd leave if things got dangerous; but things got dangerous, and in her grief she'd barely been able to protect herself from the whirlwind of chaos that followed Leopold's revival. Aurora could feel blood dripping down the side of her face, throbbing from a single spot on her scalp, and she could feel the neckline of her dress soaking it up and becoming heavier by the second. But compared to Elias, she was just scratched—Elias had taken the brunt of the Obscurial's attack, flipping their positions just in the knick of time and having his—

Oh God, Aurora thought as she felt his arm crack and shift under her knees. His arm had been blown off. It snapped right off, she'd _felt_ the bone fragments land on her, and now it was writhing under its grip on her as it—it what? Regrew? Reattached? She'd blacked out for who knew how long, anything could've happened in that time. But she _saw_ that arm come off, she _saw_ it fly through the wall of the tent.

Elias set her down a good distance away from the tent. He was looking more and more off the longer she stared at him, his skin transparent and his features almost resembling a reaper's. Were Aurora not so sure her injuries weren't fatal, she would have panicked and thought she was being ushered into the afterlife. He pushed her hair from her face, wiping some blood as he did so, and he murmured under his breath as the hand that stroked her hair slowly began to emit warmth. Aurora recognised this feeling—the sensation of someone casting a healing spell, of wounds closing and pain easing. The throbbing in her head slowly subsided—and when Aurora was able to, long before Elias was done casting, she grabbed the hand at her head and yanked it away.

"Since—" Aurora wheezed, dizziness setting back in now that she'd interrupted him. "Since when—Wandless—"

Elias hushed her. "It's okay, love," he reassured her. "Let me help you."

She looked at his hand, turned it over in her own. She could see each individual bone and joint, the way they bent and shifted as he flexed his hand.

"What did you do?" Aurora sobbed. She couldn't think of anything that could do this to a person, much less someone with magic. He didn't look like he was alive anymore—no, he didn't even look human anymore. He was something else entirely.

"What I had to," Elias told her. More people were shouting, screams of horror filtering through the air. Even with her mind lagging and the dizziness dulling her senses, Aurora's drive to find the truth told her exactly what she needed to know—this wedding had been a gathering for that damned group, and she'd walked right into the lion's den.

Aurora's expression contorted into something akin to pain, her reflection clear in Elias's eyes. She could feel her heart splitting in two, her grip on his hand turning vice-like.

"People are _hurt_," she tried. Elias shushed her.

"A message was sent," he corrected her. "This is the only way we can make them listen—even if there's no going back for any of us."

"What do you—"

"I died, Rora. All of us who collapsed—we died. And now we're back, capable of spreading our cause without the limitations of a mortal life." As he said this, sending his wife into a spiral of dread, Elias reached under his shirt and pulled at the chain around his neck. A soft light could be seen through the fabric of his dress shirt, and then he was producing a ring from beneath it. Aurora's engagement ring, left behind when she fled for England while Elias remained in Israel. The four carat diamond that adorned the gold band pulsed every few seconds, expelling light like a heart pumping blood. "We can make this world _better_ for our daughter now."

Elias cradled Aurora's hand gently. As he helped her lift her ring finger, with her wedding band still worn, he slowly slid the ring down to rest beside it.

"All I ask is that you keep me with you."

Aurora's throat closed up. She could feel the pulsing against her finger, a warmth of life that Elias's hand didn't possess. Ever so slowly she shook her head, tears pricking at her eyes as Elias gracefully laid her down on the ground properly. He stood up, fixed his jacket, and even as Aurora begged him not to side with murderers, with people who'd sooner see their daughter dead, he walked back into the burning tent.

She could only watch and scream, tears streaming down her face. No matter how much she tried to roll herself over and stand up, chase after him, Aurora's body wouldn't listen. All she could do was sit there and weep.

People gathered around her, lifting her to her feet. Aurora couldn't stand, the woman who'd found her calling for someone named Wes and realising as much very quickly. She was one of the Aurors who'd jumped into action earlier, covered in her own injuries but never resting even as she pulled Aurora into her arms and carried her away from the fire, just as Elias had not long ago. Aurora leaned her head on the woman's shoulder, unable to hold her grief in any longer.

"Wes, back me up!" the Auror yelled, and then a tall man was jogging after her, wand in hand and constant uses of disarming and shielding charms thrown about, as she ran further away from the fire and chaos erupting from within.

"I want to go back to talking about birds!" Wes yelled, clearly stressed as he deflected more spells that stayed too close to the trio.

"And I want my Jack Rose!" the woman called back at him. "Save the complaining for when we know what's going on!"

* * *

"Russel! Russ, where are you?"

Celia tumbled out of the fire with smoke in her lungs. She was covered in bruises, silverware having hit her during the accident and leaving dents in her skin like burns from a hot poker, and her dress had suffered greatly in the chaos. Fabric torn away, holes burned into the skirt; that was what Celia could see through the mess her hair had become, her bun coming loose and blood and sweat making her hair stick to her face.

"Russ!" she called again, crawling to her feet. Celia kicked off her block heels, practically flinging one of them back towards the fire. She'd tried running when Leopold gave the warning, but the force of the Obscurus emerging and Celia's lost balance made her roll her ankle—she'd crashed into the tent wall, and had come to with a man dead on top of her and fire licking at her skin.

And she'd lost Russel. He'd been right next to her, at the very back of the wedding banquet, and now he was missing.

She couldn't find his scent among the smoke, and the taste of blood tainted her mouth too much. Despite the daylight they were standing under, the thick billows of smoke clinging to the meadow still obscured even Celia's vision.

"Celia!"

She whirled on her feet. That came from inside the tent. Celia's heart leapt into her throat. "Russ!?"

"Help me with this!"

Celia didn't even hesitate. She jumped through the wall she'd just escaped through, one hand over her mouth and nose as the other swatted away smoke and embers. Russel needed help. She had to help him as fast as possible.

Though her eyes stung and her lungs burned, Celia found her way to him. More flames burned at her skin and dress, singing stray hair, but she was beyond caring about her own injuries now. Russel was kneeling on the ground, visibly straining to lift a burning tellis wall off of two people, and it was obvious that the blood covering one of his eyes was making it hard for him to see.

"Help me out, Celia!" he shouted, still unaware of how close she was. His hearing and sense of smell had been damaged by the commotion. "I'm over here!"

Celia jumped into his field of vision, hands grabbing at the opposite end of the trellis. Her nerves were alight with pain—the splintering and the burning and the blistering—but she held her grip steady. For all the muggle myths about werewolves and their superior strength, even in human form, the truth was that they were just like any other man or woman up until the week of the full moon. There were no perks, no upsides—even being able to tell people apart by smell had its downsides more than anything else. So when Russel and Celia combined couldn't lift the trellis off of the unconscious duo between them, hope was quick to leave Celia's body.

"We can't, Russ," she half-shouted. Her strength was leaving her voice the long she stayed in this death trap. "We have to leave them."

"They didn't say people would die!" Russel insisted. He was digging his feet into the ground, that same look on his face as the night he'd bitten her and transformed back. "They said we'd be treated as equals from now on!"

Celia stared at him. What in the world was he talking about?

"And we meant it," came a calm, commanding voice from behind Celia. She whirled around, stunned that she'd been snuck up on, and only found herself more and more confused by who she saw. The bride herself, alive and well and covered in her own blood, moving so smoothly towards them that she may as well have been floating—and in the middle of her chest, no longer hidden by the collar of her dress, a pulsing diamond much like her husband's announced her presence.

Clotilde Ainsworth looked almost ethereal—ghostly, phantasmal—as she smiled down at the werewolves.

She raised a hand, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at the trellis. Celia could see the outline of bones through her skin, sending a shiver down her spine.

"_Depulso_," Clotilde said sweetly, and then the trellis was flying off the unconscious guests. Russel was thrown back by the force, surprised like Celia was, and Celia could only stare. Stare and wonder just what the hell was going on. "Go on. Get them out. I need to find my husband."

And with that, Clotilde glided away—deeper and deeper into the chaos of the wedding tent.

"What… in the fu—"

"Lia, hurry!"

Russel was already lifting one of the guests up, supporting the man with one of his shoulders and practically holding him up. The man was conscious, if dazed, and he was cradling his midsection with his free arm as Russel helped him. Celia, already back to her senses, dove for the young woman who'd been trapped with him.

The sister of the bride. Celia hesitated. When she pictured meeting Meridian Sinister again, this time as adults, she didn't imagine anything like this. Her shoulder was clearly dislocated, a large gash running down the same arm. One of her heels was snapped in two, and Celia would bet she'd rolled her ankle in those things to boot.

She lifted Meridian and did her best not to agitate her shoulder. The arm hung limply at her side, facing the wrong direction and swaying with every step Celia took.

"I can't tell which way we came from," Celia admitted. The smoke—the intensity of the flames—had grown since Clotilde showed up. If she could see even a sliver of the outside world, she and Russel could flee and get to safety in a split second.

The man Russel supported coughed, and as he coughed the sound of a dog barking rang out. Celia and Russel looked to each other, confused—but then the man was slowly working something out, having heard the barking as well.

"Lena?" he wheezed. That was a rib damaged if Celia ever heard one. Louder, he shouted, "Lena!"

Almost as soon as he'd raised his voice—and broke into another coughing fit—the barks got closer. Celia held her breath, looked to Russel with equal amounts of confusion and astonishment. The closer those barks got, the more she could make out the animal's shape bounding towards them. Finally, through the thick cloud of smoke, a soot-covered golden retriever skidded to a half right in front of the man.

The man reached down as best he could, but when he coughed again, the golden retriever stood up awkwardly on its hind legs and yapped. It looked to both Russel and Celia, far too intelligently for a regular dog, and it yapped at the werewolves before turning back and waddling through the smoke.

"Follow her," the man wheezed. "She's an Animagus—she'll lead us out."

"No arguments here," Russel said quickly. As soon as he spoke, the Animagus barked again.

It was a bumpy trek outside, but when the fresh air and the cold breeze hit their skins, both Celia and Russel dropped to the ground and let their passengers lay atop them. The man rolled off of Russel, curling in on himself as he landed on his side, and Celia watched as the golden retriever turned into a very dirty, very breathless woman.

"Enzo!" she gasped, patting him down gently—but not without panic. "Where are you hurt? I'll do my best to help before—"

"The woman," Enzo coughed. He pointed over at Celia, at the sister of the bride. "Heard her arm pop. She landed under me."

And then Lena was turning back to Celia, wand drawn already. Celia sat up and gently laid Meridian down on the ground, and Celia was quick to ask, "Do you know how to put a shoulder back in place? I can bind it once you do."

It was a stressful process. The ground wasn't as flat as Celia would have liked, and while she and Russel had worked with worse—hell, Russel had to pop his shoulder back in at one point using a door frame—she didn't want to cause someone irreparable damage. When she heard it pop, watched the slight deformity of the shoulder return to its proper shape, Lena nudged her aside and told her, "Sit her upright. I'm going to bind the arm to her torso for now."

Celia did as she was told. While the unconscious Meridian was lifted into a sitting position, her previously dislocated arm positioned so that her fingertips touched her other shoulder, Lena sucked in a deep breath and aimed her wand at the injury.

"_Ferula_," she said, and with a tap of the wand to the skin, bandages were conjured and wrapped around the woman's arm and shoulders.

With everything resolved—for the most part—Lena was back on her feet and announcing, "I'm going back in. Get somewhere safe and wait for someone to help you—some of the herbologists brought tonics."

* * *

"Damian's got his jacket ready!" Kamilah wove around other Aurors as Armand followed, having switched hands once his dominant one began to ache from overuse of his wand. No matter how they looked at this situation, neither of them could make heads or tails of it.

People died, they did it to themselves—Armand assumed. And when they came back, the first thing they did was… Harm others? It felt too unbelievable, too much like something out of a terrible fantasy novel or something. But Kamilah had reacted so fast, so much like she needed to when a dark wizard was on the run. She had the expression of justice all over her—in her posture, her face, her voice—and she was trying to reduce the casualties as best she could while her coworkers fended the assailants off.

If Kamlah was in her element, Armand wondered if maybe this wasn't some massive… _thing_. Some unreal thing. It felt so real when Kamilah was serious.

With conventional fleeing out of the question, it had become apparent that Damian's jacket—the one he always kept with him, linking him to his menagerie—was everyone's best bet for peace. Aurors had crowded around him, some of the injured were passed his way; for once in his life, Armand thought as he caught sight of that hideous getup, Damian was doing something good with his recklessness.

A stray bolt struck Damian just as Armand and Kamilah made it past the first line of defense. He was flung back, having tried to move away, and when he stood back up he was in visible pain. One of the basilisk fang earrings he'd worn had been thrown off his ear, splitting the lobe in half as it did so. Blood dripped at a steady pace onto Damian's shoulder, but he went back to holding up his jacket and ushering people inside.

"Jesus," Kamilah remarked. "I forget he took some beatings in Duelling Club back in the day."

Only at first, Armand almost reminded her. He more than anyone was well aware how proficient Damian's duelling capabilities were. Armand had been a fool to try and challenge him—

Armand shook his head. Now wasn't the time. Ophelia had denied his apology, and he'd sooner choke than apologise to Damian for that day. Right now he had to focus on not getting hit with a spell.

As soon as he thought it, another bolt flew nearby. It missed Armand by a few feet, but soon it was careening up into the sky and plummeting straight down for him. Had someone homed a spell on him? Armand panicked, aiming his wand at Kamilah and flinding her and the woman they'd found closer to Damian. Kamilah crashed to the ground, screeching in shock, and then Armand was pointing his wand up at the bolt heading his way.

"_Protego Duo_—" Almost as soon as the shield began to form, the bolt collided and sent a powerful shockwave out around Armand. The force was enough to knock him off of his feet, sending him tumbling down the small hill with his wand snapped in two. Armand gasped for breath, his dominant hand not only sore but his other hand now swollen and fractured around the wrist.

"My, my," came a woman's voice, approaching at a rapid pace. Armand wasted no time standing back up, raising one fist in preparation to strike. When he caught sight of the woman—despite the deathly appearance she took on—she conjured images of Damian to his mind.

Christ. Violetta Valie, the Valie matriarch, was smiling at him with that sickeningly sweet expression.

"Wes!" Kamilah screamed, and there was fear in her voice. Rightfully so—Damian may have been a pro when it came to using his Animaspeech, but his mother was on a whole other level entirely.

"Keep going!" Armand shouted back. He shifted his weight around on his feet. Okay, if he could just get close to her before she cast anything, maybe he could take her out. Older witches and wizards focused more on their magic than their physical capabilities. She'd go down easy, even if Damian would yell at him for it later.

Armand could live with that.

"I do believe I recognise you," Violetta mused as she approached. She shouldn't be able to move so fast, Armand thought, and he slowly moved in the direction of Damian. The other Aurors in the area had been knocked down, unconscious thanks to the shockwave, and it was just Armand facing her down now. Just Armand, the beast hunter. "My Dami showed me many photos of you. He suddenly stopped one year, though. Perhaps you know why?"

Armand felt sweat dripping down the back of his neck. He _told_ his mother about Armand? What, did he also say Armand fucked up so bad that—

Armand shook his head. No, _he_ didn't fuck up. Damian did. Armand was in the right.

"Ah, I think I know why, though." Violetta tilted her head at him, and Armand's hairs stood on end. That was _not_ a very hospitable smile she was giving him now. "I've seen heartbreak before. But I've never seen my Dami suffer from it so horribly before."

She raised an arm at him, not even uttering a word—the green light that erupted, hurtling straight for him, he knew this spell—he knew this curse—

Violetta wanted him dead. Dead enough to use the Killing Curse on him.

Armand couldn't even fend for himself with his wand. All he could do was hold his breath and shield his face, hoping that it would end quickly. Please, God, don't let the Killing Curse be a slow, suffering death.

A mass of heat erupted through the area, a screech almost deafening him as he prepared for his fate. And when the Killing Curse was supposed to hit him, something dove in front of him and took the blow.

"_Maman!_" Damian shrieked. "What are you doing!?"

Armand opened his eyes slowly. He was still alive? His gaze slid from the now angry Violetta, to the scared Damian running towards them—and then, following Violetta's own gaze, to the phoenix being reduced to ashes in front of him.

"_Ce qu'une mère fait de mieux_," Violetta said, this time with an edge to her voice that made Armand flinch. She raised her arm again, ready to strike Armand down proper—

And then black fire shot out from Damian's wand, hurtling straight for Violetta and forcing her on the defense. Armand looked back at him, bewildered; Valies and their dark magic, he swore, when did they ever stop? A ring of black fire surrounded Damian, and those who approached him were met with no harm. They passed through the flames unburnt, and they were jumping into his jacket as he threw the fire at assailants who got too close.

"Armand, hurry!" Damian yelled. The phoenix was already coming back to life, rising from its ashes and gaining its glow once more. Armand picked it up, cradled it with his good arm—and then stopped.

_Protego Diabolica_ only killed those who wished the caster harm. As much as Damian thought he was saving Armand, he was just giving him another choice of execution.

"I can't!" Armand shouted back. "I can't cross the flames!"

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Damian's expression was blank, empty, and then his face contorted. Pain, heartbreak, resignation. He knew what this meant. He knew the scars of the past were still going to keep that rift between them.

Damian turned away from his mother, bringing a hand to his lips, and he let out a sharp whistle. The woman holding his jacket open let out a surprised shout as it shook and flopped about, and then she was screaming as one of the man's beasts sprang forth. The Zouwu let out a yowl as it ran through the flames, straight for Armand; for a moment it hesitated, stopped by the sudden shout Violetta let out, but then Damian was assaulting her with flames once more and the Zouwu continued on.

It picked up Armand with one long, clawed paw, and then it was looking back to Damian for instructions. Armand was hugged close to the creature's body, the phoenix cushioned between them and recovering from its blow.

"Take him somewhere safe!" Damian shouted at the Zouwu. Its chest rumbled in response, and Armand was more than aware now of how vulnerable he was in its grasp. "I'll find you!"

The Zouwu let out a cry so deafening that Armand had to bury his face in its fur. Bright sparks of red and yellow began to emit from its mane, and when it broke into a run as best it could with just three legs, the sparks became more intense.

Armand only got one last glance at the Valies before the sparks turned bright blue, exploding around the Zouwu, and the world around him vanished altogether.

* * *

**Pardon my French, literally; I haven't practiced it in forever and those I knew who are fluent aren't people I keep in much contact with sadly. If there's a better translation for "What mothers do best", hit me up and I'll replace it ASAP.**

**That said - here we go! We see the effect of everyone collapsing and the aftermath of Florence! Let me know what you guys think and I'll try get the next done soon!**


	8. VIII

**Hey there! Been a while, but I had a few things pop up in between writing scenes of this chapter! But it's done now and I can happy ask that you enjoy :) I've got a few more notes at the bottom of the chapter, but for now I'll leave you guys to the chapter!**

* * *

**VIII**

* * *

_August 12th, 2019_

The Zouwu landed with an almighty crash upon the ground, kicking up stones and dirt in its wake as it skidded along the path. Armand clung to its mane desperately, still reeling from the sudden jump from one place to another, and the phoenix in his arms squawked in a panic. It wasn't until they stopped entirely that both Armand and the beasts relaxed; the Zouwu loosened its grip on the man, let him drop to the ground with a grunt, and then it flopped onto its back with a groan.

"Hell," Armand groaned, letting the phoenix wiggle about on his chest as he stared up at the sky. Still daylight—he had to be near Ireland, right? Shit, wait, the sun was in the wrong spot. It was too close to the horizon compared to where the wedding was. Was it almost sunset where they landed? _Hell._

Armand's eyes slid to a close as the phoenix nestled into his neck, warming his shoulder and easing the pain of his injury there. He really needed to get his hands patched up, find his way back to the menagerie—_shit, his wand broke too._ Finding a replacement was going to be a pain in the goddamn ass.

He could hear voices, a language he swore he knew but couldn't understand. The Zouwu became agitated, but that was all he could hear before the adrenalin rush he'd gone through finally brought him crashing down.

When Armand woke, he wasn't in the middle of the street—or wherever he was when they'd landed. He was in a bed, he was woozy, he was staring up at a ceiling reminiscent of Hogwarts' Great Hall. Candles hovered above him, a reflection of the weather and sky outside telling him that it was the dead of night, and if he paid close attention to the constellations he could see… Lyra, he recognised Lyra. Judging by how clear the stars were, he could only assume it was 9PM where he was now. If he'd landed just before sunset… he was out for at least four hours.

He groaned and scrunched up his face. Well, at least whoever picked him up had the decency to dose him with some painkillers. That, or the hands wrapped in heavy bandages had been soaked in dittany for a while.

A door in the far corner of the room opened, and Armand had to strain to see who entered. He saw three Asian men, accompanied by a much older woman, file inside and watch him from afar. One of the men was in a coat, a suitcase in hand that Armand had no doubt contained potions. The woman let out a very noticeable, "_Humph_," and when Armand let out a grunt in his attempt to sit up, the woman stomped over in her heels.

"So our sudden guest awakens," she drawled. A pair of cat-eye glasses sat perched on her nose, the lenses tinted yellow. Armand didn't have the mental energy to ponder if it was an aesthetic choice or if it had medical reasons. "You caused quite a stir, foreigner."

Foreigner? Did he not land somewhere in Europe? He swore he had, but if it was already nine at night… "Where…?"

"Where are you? You're in a private medical wing in China's Ministry for Magic." She pulled up a chair and sat down casually, just as the man in the coat hurried over and began searching through his suitcase.

"I landed in China?" Armand slurred. Oh, that was definitely painkillers instead of dittany.

The woman nodded, unimpressed. "Made a mess of Babaoshan Revolutionary Cemetery. You're lucky we only had to obliviate less than a dozen people."

Ah, so that was where he'd landed. No wonder she was unhappy—that was too much attention from Muggles, even for Armand's tastes. But as soon as the location sank in, the exact place, Armand did a double-take.

"I don't speak Mandarin," he noted.

"And I don't speak whatever you're hearing me talk in," the woman told him. "It's not perfected, but this room has a translation charm placed on it. Anyone in here should, in theory, understand each other as though speaking the same language."

He furrowed his brows. "I think I'm speaking English."

"American?"

"Queen's English," he told her. He wasn't fond of the term, but it was the fastest way to say he _wasn't_ American. The woman scowled at him, seeming to be even more unimpressed by his admission that he was from Britain.

"Do you care to tell me, Queensman," she said slowly, "why you apparated into a Muggle cemetery with not one, but _two_ of my country's native magical beasts, while covered in blood that, from what my men can gather, _isn't your's_? And with a broken wand and two shattered hands, no less?"

Armand sucked in a deep breath. He really had no defense here, when she made him sound like a madman on the run.

"In my defense," he tried, "the Zouwu picked where I landed."

"That does little to defend you," the woman reminded him. "Why did you have a Zouwu in your possession? And a phoenix?"

"They aren't _mine_." Armand sank into his bed and stared up at the constellations. He could vaguely see others he recognised, Sagitta and Aquila. They weren't as prominent as Lyra, though. "Are you familiar with the Valie family? They're protected beasts under one of their members."

"So you either stole two magical beasts from a family that practices the Dark Arts," she scoffed, "or they were gifted to you. You're either a vigilante or a person of interest with that excuse."

Armand gave her a glare. "It was to protect me from another Valie," he snapped. And then the words sank in, his expression softening as the meaning behind Damian's actions sank in. Fuck, Damian really put his most precious creatures in danger to protect him from his mother. All because Armand couldn't cross that stupid fire.

He sucked in a deep breath and began again, hoping to at least establish his credibility to the woman and her colleagues. If they could contact the Ministry back in Britain, things might improve for him. "My name's Armand Wesley. I'm a monster hunter for the Ministry of Magic in Britain. They'll corroborate my claim if you ask—I'll even give you my wand description, my resume, my qualifications from Hogwarts that allowed me into the Department of Beast Hunting."

The woman leaned back in her chair. She crossed one leg over the other, looked to the man in the coat. She gave him a nod, and he hurried over to Armand's side with an empty potion bottle in his hands. Armand couldn't take the bottle, but he could see the charm placed on the room sloppily working to translate the characters on the label into English. It would shift in and out, half of the words indecipherable, but he could see one ingredient clearly near the bottom: Jobberknoll feathers.

He felt a laugh bubble up. He all but sank into his pillows and gave the woman an almost impressed smile.

"You were lucid for ten minutes," she informed him. "We gave you a truth serum along with painkillers, though I'm not surprised you don't remember. We had to give you a hefty dose when we tried to heal your hands—I swear you woke the dead with those screams."

"Sneaky," Armand huffed. "But fair. I assume I'm still within the timeframe of its effects."

"You are. And thus, I believe you." She rose from her chair and sat on the end of his bed, giving him an easier time to keep eye contact with her as she went on, "My name is Guō Xiùyīng. I'm the Minister for Magic here in China."

He gave Xiùyīng an almost ashamed look. "My apologies for causing you so much trouble, Minister."

Xiùyīng shook her head. "What I'm more concerned about, Armand Wesley, is how you found yourself in such a state to begin with. Please don't take this as me refusing to trust your word without the potion, but I'd rather you tell me everything that happened _now_ for the sake of time."

She wanted him to recount all of that? The wedding, the slaughter? The whole disaster?

Armand nodded, and he got himself comfortable as the doctor prepared a vial of dittany to apply to his hands.

* * *

_October 30th, 2013_

The ceremony to welcome the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang was as glamorous as the professors hyped it up to be. Sixteen-year-old Armand Wesley stared blankly ahead at the Gryffindor table, at his classmates celebrating the occasion with reckless abandon and filling their faces with a grander feast than usual.

Some of them, at least.

Across from him, Celia Abernathy stared down at her plate with an almost dazed expression. She'd been… off these past few weeks. Missed classes for one of them, hid away in the girls' dorm the others. None of the professors seemed to want to reprimand her for it, and Gryffindor never lost any points for it, but it still bothered him. She was different, not like herself. Normally Celia would be cheering along with the others, maybe even remarking what she knew about some of the foreign students for their accomplishments, but she just huddled in on herself tonight and hid behind her robes.

It bothered him. It was like a whole other person was sitting across from him tonight, so different to the usual girl who'd have eating contests with him whenever Gryffindor won the House Cup. Maybe the pressures of their sixth year was getting to her? Maybe her sixteenth birthday hadn't been as sweet as modern culture dictated it to be? No, Celia's birthday was in February. She only changed these past few weeks.

Armand shook his head and poked at his chicken, averting his gaze as soon as she noticed him staring. He wasn't sure if he should ask or anything, or if she would improve soon. Maybe the celebrations would lift her mood? The Yule Ball was coming up pretty soon, and no one seemed to hate attending that. Girls liked the freedom of their outfits during that period, too, right?

He glanced back up at her—and she was still staring. One hand tugged at one of her braids, and she opened her mouth as though to say something to Armand. He gave her an eager look, urging her on, but as soon as the courage had bubbled up… it fizzled out. Celia withdrew again, turning away from Armand as she pushed her full, untouched plate of food towards the person next to her.

Not long after the introductions of the two schools, and their delegates, the Goblet of Fire was unveiled. Dumbledore stood proudly beside Olympe Maxime and Igor Karkaroff as they addressed their students, and shortly after came the unveiling of the Triwizard Cup. A gorgeous trophy of iron and glass, both grander and visibly more aged than any muggle trophy Armand had seen. The age on the Cup made it look like simply holding it would break it in two, while the light that radiated from within made it seem far too heavy for anyone their age or skill to lift by hand alone.

"Students will have until the start of the Hallowe'en Feast tomorrow evening to enter their names," Dumbledore reminded everyone. "And for those born outside of the wizarding world, or those who were raised on the works of Hogwarts' own alumnus, Joanne Rowling, I will remind you that no such past tragedies involving high death tolls have been seen in the Triwizard Tournament. There will be no age limit for those who wish to contend—I only ask that you all consider carefully your choice."

And there was the ever-present disclaimer that Rowling wrote more extravagant tales than truth—Armand could remember vividly the looks on the faces of those who were muggleborn when they saw Dumbledore was alive and well. How could he forget when they did it every year?

As soon as everyone was dismissed, a whole three months of socialising ahead of them, Armand watched Celia flee the Great Hall without pause. She didn't even stop for her friends, or even her brother in Slytherin. The poor second-year just stared ahead, looking ready to cry, and Armand couldn't help sighing. Sometimes, he swore, the younger siblings reminded him of Frankie… Too much like Frankie.

He approached Oliver Abernathy quietly, weaving through the crowds to reach his side, but as soon as he tapped the boy's shoulder he was met with a glare. Oliver snatched his arm away from Armand violently, letting out a shout of, "Don't touch me, half-blood!" And in Armand's shock, Oliver took the chance to flee and call after his sister more angrily.

Way different from Frankie. Frankie was never such a rude little brat.

The spectacle earned him a giggle, the voice almost familiar as he turned around with a sour look. Not only had Kamilah followed him from the Hufflepuff table, but she'd picked up one of the Beauxbatons girls on her way. Ishara Serke stood with her arm linked around Kamilah's, dressed in her Beauxbatons uniform and with her Slytherin tie around her neck. Instead of transfers from other schools coming for half a year this year, they went home early and prepared for the Triwizard Tournament with their original schools.

"He's very outspoken," Ishara told Armand, referring to Oliver. Despite her amused tone, she had a rather concerned demeanour. "As terrible as it is to say, I can see why he gets picked on by older kids."

Ah, that opened up a few possibilities. Oliver probably got picked on, and when Celia stepped in, her mood soured considerably for the last few weeks. That made more sense than some of the outlandish theories he had.

"I'm sure things'll lighten up," Kamilah reassured Ishara. "It's almost Hallowe'en! And the Yule Ball is after that!"

"Here's hoping I don't trip over myself during the dance," Ishara joked.

The two walked off, Kamilah throwing Armand a wink as they did so, and Armand crossed his arms in front of his chest. During the months that Ishara was at Hogwarts, especially recently, Kamilah had been neglecting Armand in favour of the girl from Beauxbatons. They always made such sappy looks at each other, starting from last year, and now they were practically inseparable. He wouldn't say he was jealous, but…

"Think you'll put your name in?"

"Uh, hell yes? Who do you think you're talking to?"

His eyes rolled heavily, the three Slytherins he despised most making their ways out the Great Hall together. Of course they wanted to put their names in. He knew every student probably did, but it just irked Armand when he knew _these three_ wanted a piece of the fun too. Sometimes he swore they were trying to emulate the trio from the books—or the Marauders, God forbid. Could there just be one thing going on in the school that none of them had an interest in?

He watched as Ophelia and Meridian walked by, absorbed in their conversation. Meridian was mildly interested, not unlike her usual self lately, while Ophelia was expressive and excitable as she patted down her uniform for a slip of paper and to write on. Eager, they were, but they were short one.

Armand turned on his heel, pausing his escape from the Great Hall to search for the worst of the three. The last thing he wanted was to be blindsided by the annoying git, roped into a conversation that would quickly turn into an argument about how _gentle_ and _cuddly_ the XXXX beasts were. Some days he wished he could just disappear—be it himself or Damian, he didn't care so long as Armand got out of those migraine-inducing conversations. As he searched for the lanky boy, he saw Professor Dumbledore had pulled away from the other two headmasters, head bent as he spoke with someone. His expression seemed grim, yet diplomatic, and for a while Armand had to wonder if something was wrong.

But then other students parted, and Damian slunk away from Dumbledore with his head hung low and his usual bounce in his step completely missing.

Bad news? Trouble? Whatever it was, Damian looked like his hopes had just been crushed.

Couldn't have happened to a better wizard, Armand thought smugly.

Another Slytherin jogged up to Damian, patting him on the shoulder as the two boys moved past Armand. Armand kept quiet, refusing to attract attention as he listened.

"Sorry about that, Valie," the Slytherin said. He sounded genuinely sorry, which just made Armand feel more smug. "I get they want a fair chance for everyone, but it feels like they were just singling you out."

"Animaspeech is useful for a tournament," Damian sighed. "It's not cheating if I was born with it."

Oho. Suddenly the gifted bastard who could tame _any_ magical beast was considered too advantageous to be in the Triwizard Tournament? Oh, this would be eating him up inside so hard—especially if his friends didn't get picked by the goblet.

He set off towards his after-dinner free time with a skip in his step, then. His concerns about Celia were free of his mind then and there, his only thought taken up by how _excellent_ it was to not have to put up with the bastard who annoyed him most with his very existence. Even if Armand wasn't chosen, seeing Damian look so disappointed that _he_ couldn't participate was good enough of a reward for Armand.

The Gryffindor common room was abuzz with chatter of participating. Armand sorted through his papers to find anything that could be used to enter himself into the goblet, idly listening all the while. He could think of a few upperclassmen who would've loved to participate, but sadly they'd all graduated a few years ago. It was by pure luck that Armand had the chance to participate this year. He knew Kamilah was going to put her name in, as would a number of her Hufflepuff friends, so Armand changed into something more casual and formulated a plan to meet with Kamilah as she rushed to throw her name into the goblet.

He grabbed a quill, ink a tad dry but still legible as he wrote neatly, in capital letters: _Armand Wesley_.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want to?"

Amelia leaned forward on the bench, elbows balanced on her knees as she rested her chin in her hands. "I'm good," she reassured the other Hufflepuff girls. Kamilah and Lena were holding their slips of paper in their hands idly, the Beauxbatons girl trailing behind them as she seemed to be psyching herself up to throw her name into the fire. "Too much risk and not enough reward."

"You'll cheer us on if we get picked, then, right?" Lena, had she been in her golden retriever form, would definitely have been wagging her tail at the question. "Wear extra House colours for us?"

"_If_ you get picked," Amelia teased. Kamilah elbowed the younger girl playfully, repeating Amelia's statement almost mockingly. That was just how they tended to be, she supposed. They weren't _friends_, but they got along well enough to throw jokes around.

The fire within the goblet flared with each name entered into it. Amelia watched it, transfixed by the blue flames seeming to consume each name and burning brighter with each submission. The Hogwarts uniforms all blended in with each other, the House colours hardly enough for Amelia to be broken away from the fire's light. It wasn't until stark, blood-red uniforms entered the room, a crowd of Durmstrang students making their way towards the goblet with purpose. Students from Hogwarts parted to let them through, and some even began to cheer for the Durmstrang students.

Had Amelia been… less of herself, perhaps she would've cheered too. A tall young man who normally performed the exchange flanked the group, his fur coat slung over brawny shoulders as he stared ahead with a stony face. Amelia would've cheered for him, too, if she had the nerve to do so. She wasn't one to stand out, though, and besides—the way his eyes lit up and that dorky smile split across his face, just at the mere sight of her, was enough to make her appreciate this kind of semi-private exchange. He broke away from the group, jogging excitedly to the benches, and climbed them awkwardly to sit himself down next to Amelia. His classmates barely even noticed, too used to his excitement when he was in Hogwarts.

"Finally," Bruno Molis sighed in relief, stretching his coat out so that it covered Amelia as well. It was habit, he always claimed, and the polite thing to do with someone underdressed for the cold back in Durmstrang. Especially with someone you fancied. "I was so sad when no one came to Hogwarts—but the Tournament made me excited again!"

Amelia smiled at him and tucked some dark hair behind her ear. His English was getting better, not as broken as last year and all the years prior. He'd be able to keep up with Flitwick's classes now.

"Are you going to enter?" Amelia asked him. Bruno nodded eagerly, blond curls bouncing as he did so. "I'll cheer for you if you get picked."

From the bottom of the benches, Ishara and Kamilah had just finished putting their names in and overheard the promise. As Lena entered herself, Kamilah was quick to jab, "House pride! Last I checked he got put in Gryffindor for his exchange!"

Amelia poked her tongue out at Kamilah. Kamilah did the same back at her. Both Ishara and Bruno exchanged confused, but still mildly amused glances with each other.

The Durmstrang students entered their names one by one, until only Bruno was left to enter. He gave Amelia a sweet smile, almost nervous, and bent down to peck her on the cheek before pulling his coat off of her. He was always so awkward when he wanted to initiate PDA, and it only added to his charm in Amelia's eyes. Always wore his heart on his sleeve, always so interested in Amelia and her own hobbies. She'd been working on something for him in between classes, but finding the time when to give it to him was… difficult. Not to mention, giving it to him would be like handing over all of her trust and hopes on a silver platter.

Her bunkmates were all in agreement to wait and see where their relationship went, if it was just going to be a high school fling that gave Amelia a nice memento or something more that warranted a gift of this magnitude. It wasn't like wizard courting, but it came damn close apparently.

Bruno jumped down from the bench and, after a crisp high five from Kamilah and Lena on each hand, he pulled a square of paper the size of a business card from his uniform. He dropped it inside, eyes lighting up with excitement as the flames grew taller, and his Durmstrang classmates all gathered around to congratulate him on the decision. With only one "team" among the school, unlike Hogwarts' four defining ones, it seemed camaraderie was easier to come across among Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students. Less competition to represent a secondary identity assigned by the school.

Bruno gave a large wave back in Amelia's direction, cheerfully calling to her as he left the hall with his classmates: "See you tomorrow Amy! I will sit with you for Hallowe'en Feast!"

"She looks forward to it!" Lena excitedly called back. Amelia was quick to jump to her feet, scuttling down the bench to latch onto Lena and beg her to be quiet.

The goblet flared again, and the girls turned to look at the Hogwarts boy standing by it. His brightly coloured hair stood out just as much as the fire did, almost the same shade entirely, and his Ravenclaw scarf was loose around his shoulders as he bounced on his feet. Amelia swore she knew him from somewhere, found _something_ familiar about him. Lena broke away from her, and she once again called out—this time to the Ravenclaw boy.

"You too, Cian?" she gasped. "No wonder you're all blue today."

"Today?" Amelia muttered. Lena nodded, and the boy gave both of them a bright smile.

"The magic picked it," he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "So I put my name in the goblet as a sign that I should compete."

Amelia gave him a rather dubious look. She glanced over at Kamilah, who was equally as confused, but Lena seemed to take the words in stride. What an odd one.

"It's daring today," she laughed. "Well, no hard feelings if I get picked over you, 'kay?"

He gave her a pair of finger guns and winked. "Right back at you," he said, and then he was leaving the hall as more students approached the goblet to enter.

Kamilah cleared her throat, leaning against Ishara casually as she drawled, "So… He's interesting."

"Oh—" Lena shook her head and laughed. "I keep forgetting I don't have classes with you guys. That's Cillian Remington, you might've heard of him. He's really sensitive to magic and has a kind of—"

"Avant garde?" Kamilah cut in.

"Unique?" Ishara chimed.

"Odd," Amelia decided.

"_Interesting_ connection with his magic," Lena corrected them. "He's very nice. Anyone put in a group with him for practical studies is very lucky." Lena looked around, almost as though worried someone would hear her, and leaned closer to the girls. In a hushed voice she went on, "Now that Flo's doing better, I've been thinking of seeing if Cian will tutor him. You guys noticed he's getting better with his charms, right?"

Lena was going to ask Cillian to… tutor the one most dangerous Hufflepuff in Hogwarts? It was a good intention, helping Florence get a better grip on his spells and catch up enough in his final year to not be held back, but the elephant in the room was _what_ Florence was.

"Would he be… comfortable with that?" Kamilah asked slowly. Ishara gave her a confused furrow of her brows, but Kamilah gave her the universal handwave of explaining later.

Lena nodded. "Oh, if anything, Cian will be enamoured. Anything he can learn more about—within ethical reason—he's all over. Ravenclaw through and through," she laughed.

It was enough to put Kamilah at ease. She shrugged, acquiescing, but it wasn't enough to satisfy Amelia's nerves. It'd been a good while since Florence even came close to having an "accident", though she'd been witness to a few close calls during the first few years. She wasn't convinced things would be as dandy as Lena insisted. Nothing was ever as simple as anyone wanted.

Not that she'd say it out loud. With all her fears, people still believed he was improving. He had those Slytherins jumping to his defense whenever they got the chance, and that Ainsworth boy in Gryffindor made it pretty clear that he'd sabotage anyone who tried to set Florence off. Even when it came out that he'd faked his own injuries during that one incident, inflicting them on himself, he still wasn't punished for his actions. McGonagall even praised his use of the knockback jinx and his aim, though it was _very much_ off the record according to Professor Sprout.

So Amelia just nodded, still apprehensive but encouraging of Lena's plan. So long as the teachers could stop him if something did go wrong, what was there to worry as much about? It wasn't like he'd get freaky enough to accidentally kill someone.

* * *

The words had caught him off-guard when he heard them, but he was starting to process them soon enough. "I wish they'd let Walter into the school for the Yule Ball, at least. His parents are magical—shouldn't he count?"

It was the first time Deacon had heard of his upperclassman refer to her new boyfriend with more than just his name and his interests. He'd always assumed Walter was a wizard who was homeschooled, while his sister—who hovered near Meridian during their free periods—was sent to Hogwarts. Deacon had assumed Walter was too good for regular schooling, or that he'd gone to a school elsewhere. The way she spoke about him today, though, at the feast, was enough to paint a whole picture for him. His _parents_ were magical. _He_ should count. Meaning something was wrong with him. Something his sister didn't inherit.

Was she in a relationship with a squib? It wasn't his place to really tell her who to associate with and who not to. But she was a Sinister. Sinisters took delight in pranking muggles and lower status half-bloods. He always assumed she was friends with Ophelia despite her muggle father because the Ashcourts were, well, _big_ in the pureblood world. If her father was stricken from the history books, no one would be the wiser. This… was harder to remove from history. Or even the present.

Deacon leaned back in his chair in the library, quill balanced between his fingers delicately as his peers sat nearby and chattered among themselves. It was perplexing. He thought she was just humouring everyone by being reserved—biding her time to take on the Sinister mantle like her parents had, before their untimely deaths. But now he wasn't so sure.

"Deke," one of the boys called, clicking their fingers in his face. Deacon gave him an annoyed glare, setting down his quill as he did so. "Pay attention. I know it's boring, but Snape wants us ready for our N.E.W.T.s next year."

"You forget I'm in fifth, not _sixth_ year," Deacon sighed. "And personally, I'm not stressed about my O.W.L.s results. Worst case, I don't pass the Arithmancy exam. Not like I need it for Quidditch anyway."

The upperclassman scoffed. "Well excuse _me_, Mr. Superstar. How about you tutor the rest of us, then?"

"I'm not studying what you are," Deacon pointed out. He shrugged as he gave the boys an easygoing smile. "Out of my hands, lads."

There were a few disgruntled insults thrown his way, but he knew they were just sour that he was an excellent student. They wished they had the grades he got—as they should. Deacon brushed them off, sliding his book shut, and stretched his arms high above his head. He'd planned to chill out after he'd put his name in the goblet of fire, but he'd been ambushed in his search for something interesting to read. Dragged into studying he already had down pat. Naturally, that led to him letting his mind drift to Meridian's statement, what it meant, what her deal was.

As though answering an unspoken prayer for an out, Deacon noticed a Gryffindor jumper in the corner of his eye. Browsing a shelf dedicated to magical beasts was one Leopold Ainsworth, brows pinched in thought as he looked from the shelf to the list in his hand, then back again.

If anyone would know anything about abnormal families, an Ainsworth would. Not to mention, Walter's sister was a Gryffindor…

"I'm gonna have to leave you lot to it," he told the boys. They booed him, some even throwing their balled up notes at him, but Deacon deftly dodged all of them as he stood. They had to try harder than that to make him take a solid hit of homework.

He caught sight of Leopold rounding the corner of a shelf just as Deacon left the others, absorbed in his search so much that the younger boy didn't seem to notice he was being watched. It took Deacon no time at all to catch up to him, sneaking into the aisle just as someone else left—Clotilde Sinister. The sister of the very person who was vexing him today. What an odd coincidence, he thought with an almost dubious tinge to the idea. Start wondering about a Sinister, or anyone affiliated with them, and another shows up in their place. Deacon supposed he was lucky there were only two of them left alive nowadays; Lord knew what kind of trouble they'd get up to if there were even a dozen of them. They may as well have been descendants of the Good Neighbours, with how they revelled in their trickery.

Clotilde spared him a simple-minded smile, eyes blank as ever and belaying her airheaded nature. He supposed she only counted as half a Sinister, with how daft she was. How she'd pass her classes without having an intuitive knack for things was a mystery to even Deacon. Gunmetal grey eyes darted then to the members of the team busy studying, and Clotilde bounced in their direction with an excited gasp. "Hellooooo!" she called, earning an angered shushing sound from the librarian—which went ignored. "Is this a Quidditch team meeting? Is Meri with you?"

Meridian was so obviously not with them. For one thing, it was hard to miss the fact that everyone there was male.

Deacon shook his head and crept into the aisle. It was just him and Leopold now, the young Gryffindor with his nose stuck in a book about potions now. How curious, jumping from magical beasts to potions so quick.

"You forget something, Clo?" Leopold muttered, not even bothering to look up. Deacon saw the opportunity to at least try to make a friendly jab, even if it was at Clotilde's expense. It wasn't like they ever bothered her, he reasoned. Half the time she was the one laughing the hardest at people's remarks.

"I'd swear she'd forget to breathe if her body didn't instinctively force her to after a while," Deacon remarked. Leopold paused as he turned a page in his book, his eyes slowly lifting to meet Deacon. There was confusion at first, but that soon turned into a warm smile and Leopold's full attention.

"She has ways of surprising you," he said matter-of-factly. Leopold set down the book and folded his arms over his chest, casually tilting his head. "But I doubt you came to talk to me about Clotilde, did you."

Deacon shook his head. "It _is_ related to a Sinister, though."

"Meridian?" Leopold gave him a surprised look, shoulders shaking as though trying not to laugh. Was it so funny? "Between you and me, surely you'd already know what you wanted to ask about your own teammate. Hell, I'd imagine Clotilde's insight is more valuable than mine."

"I said it's _related_ to a Sinister," Deacon repeated. "Not about her."

Leopold gave him an apologetic smile. He raised his hands in surrender, gesturing for Deacon to continue as though Leopold had never interrupted.

Deacon sighed and turned to the shelf. He could see a few spots where books were missing, no doubt stolen away for students cramming to pass their O.W.L.s. Even Leopold's book, upon further inspection, seemed to be a more advanced level of potioning matter. He was an ambitious one, he gave him that much. "Millicent Fell. You know of her family?"

The smug smile on Leopold's face was unbecoming of him. "Rumours travel fast among you Slytherins," he said in favour of answering. Deacon gave him a dark look, but it didn't deter Leopold in the slightest. "She only confided in her friends, what? A week ago? Compared to the sheer number of students with us each year—ah, but Meridian _is_ the Seeker for Slytherin. Gossip as juicy as that would surely make the rounds tenfold if she were just an ordinary student."

"My question, Ainsworth."

"Yes, yes. Millicent. I know of her family." He shrugged. "They're sort of an enigma among Gryffindors. Too strange to be true, but every family I know has met a Fell in each generation here."

Deacon pulled a copy of _Herbology: The Almanac of Mountain Tinctures_ from one shelf and leafed through the pages. "Strange, how?"

Leopold raised a hand, his index finger extended. "First of all, they're a pureblood family as far as the records go. Even the Ministry hasn't found proof of intermarriage with muggles or half-bloods."

"That's not strange—" Wait. But how was Millie's brother a squib? Surely something had been missed in those records.

"And you realise why it _is_ strange," Leopold went on smugly. A second finger was raised as he went on, "Despite being pureblood, the family is positively riddled with squibs. And we all know how they come to be. So where did the trigger come from?"

Deacon worked his jaw as he looked over a quick instruction on how to prepare mountain flowers for medicinal use compared to garden-grown. He spared a glance at Leopold, practically reminding him that he already knew all of this—the squib part at least—with the look.

A third finger was raised. "Is it a blood curse? Certainly not. Those have a tendency to kill, but the family tree sure does _look_ like it's been afflicted with one. You want to know how many Fells are born squibs each generation? Every firstborn. Millicent's brother—his caretaker—her caretaker before. All the first to be born from their parentage, all cast aside." And then Leopold paused, raising a fourth finger. "Except for _one_ generation of Fell children, who—aside from the firstborn, born with magic—were all squibs thanks to the poor couples' attempt at eugenics. Almost like the trend was sentient."

"So the family spits out muggles out of nowhere every generation," Deacon summed up. "Why is that so special? Just give the firstborns up for adoption and stop associating with the wizarding world altogether."

A fifth finger. "The Fell firstborns are also the Fell nannies. But that's a less _odd_ fact about them, so I'll leave it at that."

Deacon sighed. Okay, so what he knew now was that the family was weird and the one competent Sinister left was wanting to dance at the Yule Ball with one of their hiccups. Allegedly. Deacon was still on the fence on whether or not she was playing the long game with family traditions.

"Listen," Leopold went on. "I _know_ you're asking because you heard somehow about Meridian and Millicent's brother—but you're oddly invested. Why not ask her directly?"

Deacon scoffed and snapped the book shut. Dust flew off of the hardback cover and rained down onto the floor. "She's a Sinister," he said, the most obvious answer in the world. "No one knows what they're on about. What's the point of asking?"

"There's always Legilimency. I'm sure you could try it on either sister."

"Yeah, no. First of all, I doubt I'll find someone who isn't one of Meridian's friends to teach me—and second, I doubt there'd be much to see in Clotilde's head if I did use it on her."

Leopold raised a brow at him.

Deacon sighed and pointed to his forehead as he slid the book back into the shelf. "Her head is _empty_, lad. There's nothing to hear even with Legilimency."

That got an interested hum out of Leopold. He furrowed his brows and smiled, utterly amazed. "_Fascinating_," he said with some oomph to his tone. He was genuinely surprised by the information, even if it was just Deacon, well, insulting Clotilde. "I simply must test that one day."

"Oh, what, you're suddenly a skilled Legilimens?"

He shrugged. "Kind of a family tradition to know the basics of both," Leopold said with a shrug. "Come sixth year, I can test it out on her with confidence I haven't messed anything up."

Deacon scoffed. "Right. Okay. Let me know what kind of elevator music plays in her head when you get to that. I'm sure we'll find a muggle hotel that plays it somewhere once you graduate."

He turned on his heel and sighed. Well that was a waste of time. Maybe not as big a waste as it could've been, but now all he knew was that a family riddled with squibs was making its way into a prestigious pureblood family. Surely there had to be a method to this madness, even if it wasn't revealed until much, much later.

"Expect a Howler when I do," Leopold called after him. He didn't say another word as he opened his book once more and resumed his reading.

* * *

**Okay so! Some extra news! Hoo boy guys we got a TVTropes page for Meridian Sinister :0 And because it was brought up to me by friends, I've made a Discord server to talk about MeriSin, or whatever else, in between chapters so you guys can find out when I'm updating next! Just send me a DM and I'll link you the server invite if you're interested!**


End file.
